A Lesson In Domesticity
by GallifreyGal
Summary: Peter Parker, the son of Tony Stark, has lived his life in happy secret with his dad and his Pops, Steve Rogers. But when he wins Oscorp's prestigious Young Scientist award, his life begins to change—and only time will tell if it's change for the better. Stony, Clintasha, Peter/Gwen.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Fine

He could feel the heat from his thrusters against his hands and feet, shielded though they were by the gold-titanium alloy of his suit. He reveled in the feeling of air rushing past as he dove around buildings and startled passerby. New York City in the middle of the night was his favorite place to fly. The air was muggy and still smelt of hot dogs and cigarette smoke from the formerly bright summer day. He pinned his arms to his side, ready to push his thrusters to the max and soar almost to the stars, when suddenly a siren wailed through the night air. He pushed forward, went towards the sound, and got out his shield, but he couldn't pin the location of the noise. The siren rang out again, but something about it sounded off. Were sirens supposed to sound like that? No, no it didn't sound like a siren…what was that sound? It was…

"Peter! Son, get up, you're going to be late!"

Peter Parker opened his eyes and slammed his right hand down on the top of his alarm clock, which was still screeching like an angry cat. He laid in bed, his eyes closed, trying to hold onto his dream, trying to retain that feeling of flying through the air, just as it slipped like water from his fingers.

"PETER."

Peter groaned and threw the covers off. He grabbed his glasses from the bedside table and his world came into view. All in all, it looked like the bedroom of any other normal (if, perhaps, slightly geeky) teenage boy. Completed Lego sets (the Enterprise, the Death Star, and a surprisingly impressive improvised Mordor, to name a few) were displayed permanently on the shelves. Model cars he'd made with Pops shared the space. Old superhero toys spilled out from a much-used red and blue toy chest in one corner of the room. His desk was littered with his camera equipment and biology books, and somewhere underneath a pile of snickers wrappers was his laptop.

Peter grabbed a pair of dark colored jeans from off the floor and jerked them on. He grabbed a shirt from a hanger and stuffed himself in it. For good measure he also put on his favorite black hoodie. He ran a comb through his hair and put in his contacts before jamming on socks and sneakers and grabbing his backpack. As an after thought he took his camera, too. He ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. Pops sat at the table, sipping coffee and reading the New York Times. Peter didn't need to ask where his Dad was—he was close to making a breakthrough, so he'd probably just slept at Stark Tower in his lab. Or more likely, he'd not slept at all.

"You're going to miss your bus again," he said to Peter with a pointed look.

"I know, Pops," Peter replied, exasperated. He grabbed his dad's coffee cup and stole a gulp—earning him another stern look—before snatching a pair of pop-tarts out of the toaster.

"Have a good day," Pops shouted as Peter ran out the front door.

This was not an irregular occurrence with Peter, missing the bus. He had, in fact, learned every shortcut to the next three stops so that if he ran fast enough, he'd make it in time to catch it the rest of the way to school. His backpack bounced like crazy on his spine, but his spare hands were occupied with holding his camera still and holding pop-tarts, respectively. Peter stumbled over a crack and knocked over a trashcan, dropping one of said pop-tarts in the process.

"Parker!" scolded Mrs. Kerry, a not-so-sweet little old lady who lived five doors down from the Stark-Rogers-Parker household. It was unfortunate that she happened to be hobbling onto her porch to get the newspaper at that moment.

"Sorry!" Peter called out as he continued to stumble his way back into a running pace.

"You'll never make it, Peter!" called out Mr. Jenkins, who was watering his garden.

"Have to try!" Peter said as he leapt over a discarded beer bottle. Peter loved his home in Brooklyn, but scenic it was not. He ran through an alley and when he got out he could see the bus just ahead, stopping to pick up Sally and Jake. "Wait! Wait for me!" Either Sally and Jake couldn't hear him or they were ignoring him on purpose (the more likely of the two). They boarded the bus and Peter sprinted as fast as he could. "Wait!" The doors of the bus closed with a sigh, and it slowly rattled forward. Peter chased it for a few more yards, but eventually the bus picked up speed and Peter slowed to a stop as it turned the corner, out of sight.

Peter groaned in frustration—and that would be yet another tardy against him. He'd have to walk the whole way to school. Peter started walking down the sidewalk, but he stopped when he heard the sound of a motorcycle coming down the street. The blue bike pulled over to the curb, and Peter recognized the driver instantly despite the heavily tinted helmet on his head. Pops held out an extra helmet to Peter.

"What kind of father would I be if I let you be late one more time? Get on," he said in a muffled voice. Peter pulled on the proffered helmet, jumped on the back of the motorcycle, and his pops revved the engine. They streaked down the street. Peter loved the feeling—it was almost like flying. He wondered if that was why Pops loved his bike so much. They passed the bus and arrived at the school in a matter of minutes. Peter hopped off the bike and gave his pops the helmet back.

"Thanks for the ride, Pops," Peter said. His pops patted him on the shoulder.

"You have a good day, son," he said, and then he revved the engine and took off again. Probably, if Peter had to guess, heading to Stark Tower to make his dad get some sleep. Peter took a bite out of his strawberry pop-tart and climbed up the steps of Midtown High—time for yet another day of the painfully ordinary.

Peter, being the son of Tony Stark, head of Stark Industries and, more famously (or infamously, depending on who was talking), the superhero Ironman, and the adopted son of Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America, was bound for a life with no sense of normalcy and certainly no sense of privacy. What concerned his dads, however, was the potential danger involved with Peter being publicly known as their son. So, just as Steve and Tony kept their relationship under wraps, they kept Peter under wraps as well, and had for his entire life. In his little Brooklyn neighborhood, they were the Parker family—and to Peter's knowledge, no one had ever seen his parents step outside without their motorcycle helmets on.

Tony had never been to a parent teacher conference day. Neither had Steve for that matter. They were both too instantly recognizable. It was lucky, Peter reflected as he finished the rest of his pop-tart, that he was such a good kid that his parents had never been called in for disciplinary action. That could be an issue.

Peter walked down the locker-lined hall of Midtown High, completely invisible to the other students. Well, metaphorically speaking, anyway. If he could _actually_ turn invisible, maybe he could follow in his parents' footsteps—but, no, he was no superhero. And he never would be.

"Yo, Parker!" Were Peter a lesser soul, he probably would have flinched at the mere sound of that voice. It belonged to Flash Thompson, who, Peter was convinced, existed solely to make his life, and the lives of all the intelligent but socially incapable people at Midtown High, a living hell. Peter turned to face him and his two buddies.

"Hey, Flash," Peter said casually.

"Oh, you think we're on a first name basis, Parker?" Flash asked as his buddies snickered behind him. "The only thing you're well acquainted with is _my fist_."

"I'm sorry, did you get that line straight from _The Really Big Book of Cartoon Villainy_?" Peter asked even as Flash backed him against the old green lockers. Adrenaline pounded in his ears, but Peter wasn't the type to run away from a fight.

"Say what you want now, Parker," Flash said with a nasty smile, "because I'm going to knock you in your faggoty mouth so hard you'll be talking funny past graduation." Peter moved to duck, but Flash pinned him to the locker with his left hand alone. The metal rattled, the sound echoing down the hall, but, predictably, no one came to help. Some of his classmates stood and stared. Some stood and smirked. _There are no heroes in high school_, Peter thought dryly, just as Flash's fist connected with his face.

Flash let him go and Peter fell on his butt to the floor, hands over his throbbing eye. Flash and his buddies walked away, laughing.

"See you around, Parker," Flash said in parting.

"You missed," Peter said under his breath. He'd sport a black eye, but all his teeth were still in tact. He pushed himself up off the floor and flipped up the hood on his hoodie before heading to English class.

He picked a seat in the back and slumped over his desk, concentrating on his notebook. English didn't really interest him. It wasn't enough of a challenge. Usually he spent the period doodling, or designing robotics that he could make in Dad's lab, and today was no exception. The bell rang and Mr. Kaplan began his lecture, but Peter was engrossed in his drawing. Flying through the air in a red and blue suit of metal with a shield proudly stamped with an _A_ attached to his back was Peter's nameless creation. He soared above New York, waiting to hear a cry for help.

"Is that Iron Man?"

Peter flipped his notebook over so fast he was sure he'd accidentally creased the page. Gwen Stacy had turned around in her seat and was looking at him with her big, blue eyes. Peter could have sworn his heart skipped a beat.

"Uh, no," Peter said. "I don't…I don't know what it is."

"Looked like Iron Man to me. But the colors were all wrong," Gwen said. She knit her eyebrows together. "Peter, what happened to your eye?" She reached out as if to touch it, but Peter flinched away in surprise.

"Uh, it's nothing, really. Just uh—"

"Did somebody hit you?" she asked. Peter found it a little hard to believe that she hadn't witnessed the scene in the hallway—but then again, all the teachers seemed to have missed it, too.

"Uh—" Peter said, trying to come up with an excuse, but it was very difficult to think when those big blue eyes were focused right on him.

"Miss Stacy! Mr. Parker!" Mr. Kaplan called out. Gwen turned back around. "Something either of you would like to share with the class?"

"Oh, Peter and I were just arguing over whether or not Macbeth is a tragic hero," Gwen lied easily.

"Well, I'm sure that would be a very interesting debate you'd both like to share with the whole class," Mr. Kaplan said. Peter's stomach sunk. Macbeth? Had he done that reading? …No, he was pretty sure he'd skipped that in favor of playing another hour of _Guild Wars_. "How about you start us off, Mr. Parker?" Mr. Kaplan's arms were folded and he had a stubborn expression on his face—there would be no bull shitting his way through this one. Peter felt his face start to heat.

"Uh, well—" Peter started, but thankfully he was interrupted by a knock on the door. An office aide cracked open the door.

"Excuse me, Mark, but I need Peter Parker to come down to the principal's office now, please," said the aide quietly, but of course the whole class heard. They _ooh'ed_ at Peter's apparent misfortune. Mr. Kaplan gestured with his hand for Peter to come forward.

"Out you go, Parker," he said. Peter's mind raced as he thought of all the things he could be called to the principal's office for. Was it for dismantling that computer in the library? Because he'd put it all back together again—he'd only been fixing it! Or maybe it was for making a flamethrower in chemistry last Friday—but no one had gotten hurt, and Miss Joplin had told him it was a marvelous example of just how reactive the elements could be. Peter gathered up his stuff and followed the aide out the door.

Five minutes later, Peter was seated in the principal's office, which was, actually, a place he had never been inside before, though he'd met the principal before. He'd put down his hood and tried to make himself look as presentable as possible. Principal Mason was a big, buff guy who would have looked more in place at a pro wrestling match than behind an administration desk at a high school. Principal Mason smiled at him with his bright, white teeth.

"Peter Parker," he said. "You know, I've never had you in here before. That's a good thing. You want a soda, Parker?" Principal Mason pulled a coke out from the mini-fridge under his desk.

"Uh, no thanks, sir," Peter said. "Am I in trouble for something?"

"No. Why, should you be?" Principal Mason asked, suddenly stern and menacing. Peter swallowed.

"No, sir. I don't think so," Peter replied nervously. Principal Mason laughed loudly.

"I'm just messing with you, kid," he said. "Have a coke." He pushed the soda towards Peter and then got out one of his own. Peter took the offered soda but didn't pop the tab. He eyed the principal warily. Mason took a swig of his own drink. Peter felt Mason's eyes on him and it made him squirm in discomfort. "Gee, kid, what happened to your eye?"

"Uh, it's not really—I mean—I fell. Well, I tripped. I tripped and my eye got hit by a…door. Knob. A doorknob," Peter mumbled. Mason raised and eyebrow, but he took another swig of coke and then he smiled again.

"Mighty strong doorknob, if you ask me. Anyway, Parker, we've got a lot of untapped talent at this school. We've got kids who, if they just put their minds to something, could be really great. And you know, it makes me sad to watch us fail them, again and again. But you, Parker, you're something special. And it doesn't even seem like you need anyone behind you to do great things," Mason said.

"Thanks?" Peter said. The principal, of course, couldn't know that Peter had all the support in the world behind him. He had two fantastic parents who helped him to do anything he wanted.

"You're welcome Parker," Principal Mason said. "Mr. Stromberg showed me your entry for the science fair." Peter blinked. He was brought into the principal's office because of his science fair project? He'd made that ages ago—last year, in fact. It had won, predictably. If there was one thing Peter was good at, it was science. He'd invented a serum that helped skin or muscle cells in a Petri dish to grow at four times the normal rate. It could be useful to skin grafts, Peter figured, and it could probably one day have applications in growing whole organs. And S.H.I.E.L.D was always looking for the latest medical advancements. Principal Mason took another gulp of soda. "I went ahead and entered your project into Oscorp's annual Young Scientist scholarship competition—have you ever heard of it?" Peter froze. Had he _heard _of it?

Oscorp's prestigious Young Scientist scholarship meant a free ride for four years at Empire State University, one of the premier universities in the country for scientific research. But Oscorp happened to be one of the least scrupulous companies around—and one of Stark Industry's biggest rivals. Dad could rant about Oscorp for hours on end—and had, on multiple occasions. He typically stopped only when Pops said things to him that made Peter plug his ears in disgust and horror or kissed him so deeply that Peter would run away to his room before he was scarred for life.

"Yeah, I know it," Peter replied. The principal only smiled wider.

"Well, Mr. Parker, _you won_," he said. Peter blinked. His mind had frozen.

"Are you kidding?" he asked.

"Nope. Pop open that coke, kid—you've earned yourself a college education!" he said. Peter's brain swam with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he couldn't believe he'd won. Empire State University was incredible, and now he wouldn't even need to apply—they'd accept him on the basis of the award alone. But Peter's parents could more than easily afford his education—what if he was taking an opportunity from someone less fortunate? And what if he wanted to go to his dad's alma mater, MIT? He hadn't made any final decisions about school yet—it was only October.

"Wow," Peter said, not knowing what else to say. He popped the tab as instructed and took a sip. Principal Mason slid a piece of paper across the desk. Peter could see the Oscorp letterhead and he felt his heart sink a little.

"They'll be displaying your project in a new exhibit with their latest inventions. You and your family are invited to attend the unveiling next week," Principal Mason explained. "You've done Midtown High proud, Parker. You've done yourself proud."

"Thank you sir," Peter said. The bell rang out, announcing the end of English class. "Uh, I have biology next, sir, so if you don't mind, could I—" Peter indicated the door.

"Oh, of course—don't want to neglect your studies, do you? Good man, Peter," Principal Mason said. He stood up and walked him to the door. Mason clapped Peter on the shoulder, which nearly sent the coke flying out of his hand. "Congratulations, son."

"Thanks," Peter said quickly, and he scurried away down the hall. Peter glanced at the letter—

_Oscorp Enterprises_

_ 52 4__th__ Ave._

_ New York City, NY 10003_

_To Mr. Peter Parker:_

_Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that you will be this year's recipient of the Oscorp Young Scientist award. We were highly impressed with_

—and glanced away, a guilty feeling settling in his stomach. He knew what his dad was going to say, and it wasn't going to be pretty. Could he accept this? Could he allow his project to go on display at _Oscorp_?

Well, maybe he could explain the situation. Maybe he could tell whoever was in charge of the whole thing that this was just one big mistake, that he'd never actually entered the contest in the first place. There was an RSVP number on the congratulations letter—maybe it would be good to start there. Peter flipped up his hood and ducked into biology. Maybe this situation wouldn't get ugly.

Well, he could hope, anyway.

The bus dropped Peter off outside his humble little house later that afternoon. The tiny thing was smashed up against houses on either side, and the whole thing could probably fit into the living room of his dad's mansion in California, second story included. He felt a familiar feeling of relief as he opened the short, chain-link gate outside his house. He'd survived yet another day at school—that in and of itself often enough felt like a reason to celebrate, and today was one of those days. His eye was still stinging, and he knew there was no way he could hide it from either of his dads. It was too obvious—and they were too nosy. Peter pushed open the front door.

"Dad? Pops? You in here?" Peter looked around, but he couldn't see any sign of either of his dads, and the house was as quiet as a crypt. He shut the door behind him and dumped his backpack on the couch. "Pops?" Peter wandered into the kitchen, but his pops wasn't there. Peter rushed up the steps to the second story. His dads' room was open. Peter carefully peaked inside, but there was still no sign of them. Peter noticed that Pops' shield was conspicuously missing, and his heart skipped another beat and flew into his throat—something was wrong.

He rushed back downstairs and scrambled to find the remote. He flipped on the news. The first station was doing a puff piece about some first graders sending a message (specifically, a badly sung song) into space for one of the kids' astronaut mom. He flipped to another, but it was going on and on about stocks. The next one was reporting on a high profile murder that happened three days ago, but nothing out of the ordinary. Peter checked his phone—maybe his dad had sent him a text—but nothing was there.

He flopped on the couch, his heart doing somersaults. If they had time, they always sent a text or left a note. If they _didn't_ have time to leave a quick message—well, that wasn't a sign of anything good. Peter could call, he supposed, but he didn't want that one second of JARVIS informing his father that he was calling to be the one critical second that managed to get him killed, so Peter resisted. He got out his notebook and started to draw to distract himself from the fact that, more likely than not, at this very moment his parents were fighting for their lives—and probably for the lives of everyone else on planet earth.

Four o'clock turned into five, five into six, six into seven, seven into eight. Eventually Peter got up to fix dinner, which, since _he_ was cooking, consisted solely of Kraft Mac and Cheese. Eight turned into nine, and the knot in Peter's chest felt near to exploding. He couldn't take it anymore. He picked up his phone to dial his dad's number, but before he hit dial, he heard voices outside. Very familiar voices. He dropped his phone and ran to the door just as his dads burst through. His dad was already out of his suit, but his pops was still in his full outfit, looking a little worse for wear. Peter hoped they'd rushed inside—and he hoped that it was particularly dark out.

"—no, Tony, I don't care. We _don't put civilians in the line of fire_. Not _ever_," Steve said vehemently.

"Oh, give me a break Captain Hard Ass," Tony said, rolling his eyes. "What about that time in Tahoe? Or L.A.? Hell, do you even _remember_ Geneva?"

"Those were different!" Steve insisted. "We got all the civilians out, we directed the fire _away_ from them, and when they _were _in the way, we _moved_ them. We didn't _fire over their heads_ and hope it didn't hit—"

"Uh, we?" Tony asked sarcastically. "Who's we? Not _you _and me, certainly, because I can't even remember the last time you used a weapon—"

"Uh, Dads?" Peter interjected.

"I can't remember the last time I _needed_ a weapon—"

"Dads?"

"Oh, right, because you can just rip someone's throat out with your goddamn bare hands can't you Captain Steroids—"

"DADS!" Peter yelled. Steve and Tony, his pos and his dad, suddenly turned their heads and looked at their son.

"Peter!" Pops said with shock. "Peter, what happened to your eye?"

"What happened to my—really? What happened to your _entire body_?" Peter asked. Pops' uniform was streaked with mud and ripped and bloody in places. He had a bruise on his forehead that looked like it might swell to be the size of a golf ball, and a welt on his neck that was already that size.

"A little trouble in San Francisco," Pops said. "I'm sorry we didn't leave a note—there really wasn't any time."

"And what, you've been too busy arguing with each other to remember to text me on the plane ride home?" Peter asked, annoyed. Steve and Tony exchanged guilty glances.

"Pete, we're sorry," his dad said. Peter just rolled his eyes and sat back on the couch—all that worrying for nothing!

"Whatever, it's fine," he said, grabbing his notebook and pen. He kept sketching.

"No, it's not fine," Pops said softly. He took a seat next to Peter and put an arm around his shoulder. "I'm sorry kiddo. We should have called. That wasn't fair to you." His dad took a seat on Peter's other side.

"I'm with your Pops on this one, Peter. We're really sorry," Dad said, sitting on his other side.

"I was worried," Peter admitted. "I always worry when you just disappear."

"Hey, we'll always come back, squirt," Pops said with a grin, ruffling Peter's hair. Peter offered up a weak smile in return, but he knew Pops was lying. They might be superheroes, but they weren't infallible. Peter knew that better than anyone. And he dreaded the day when they didn't come walking through that door, bruised but alive. He hated waiting. He hated that he had to sit at home and just take it when his dads were out putting their lives on the line for everyone's safety. His dad looked at him, a very serious expression on his face.

"Steve, why don't you go clean yourself up," he suggested. "You're getting the couch bloody." Pops jumped as fast as if Tony had told him that the couch was filled with spiders.

"_Where_?" he asked, then he groaned. "Oh, gosh darn it, you're right. I'll be back in a minute." Pops disappeared up the stairs, and Tony stared intently at Peter.

"I'm not a kid anymore," Peter said frankly.

"I know," his dad replied.

"I know you might not come back. I know Pops might not come back. And I hate that I can't do anything about it," Peter said earnestly. His dad gestured to his notebook.

"Is that why you go here?" he asked. Peter looked at the notebook, momentarily confused. His dad pointed to one panel in particular—Iron Man, Captain America, and the mysterious Iron Avenger, Peter's own character, stood together as a team. Peter sighed.

"I don't know. I guess," he said. "You know, if you would just let me _try_ a suit—"

"No, Peter," his dad said firmly. "Your pops and I might argue about a lot of things, but that's one thing we've always agreed on. You can't, Peter."

"But—"

"But nothing!" his Dad said. "I don't want to hear it again. This house? The name Parker? Public school? It's all to keep you safe, Peter. We've been protecting you your whole life, and I'm not about to stop just because you turned eighteen. Am I clear?" Sometimes, Peter reflected, he could get his dad to let him do whatever he wanted. Eat ice cream for breakfast? Check. Make a robot dog? Check. Watch a horror movie late at night at the tender age of six? Check (although, Peter had to admit that that was one check he regretted—he'd had nightmares for two weeks). His dad was just a big softie on the inside. But the look on his face in that moment told him that nothing was ever going to budge him from this issue. The Iron Avenger would only ever exist on paper.

"Fine, whatever," Peter said flatly.

"Good," his dad said, then less sternly he added, "I know this is tough for you, Pete. I know what you're feeling. I feel it every time your Pops goes out on a mission when I'm sidelined. You just have to have faith that we'll come back, and know that if we don't, you're strong enough to handle it." _If we don't, you're strong enough to handle it_. The words sent a shiver down Peter's spine. He was definitely _not_ strong enough to handle that. But he didn't say so. He just nodded. He felt his dad's eyes on him for another long moment, but seconds later Pops returned.

"So Peter, how was school?" Pops asked, taking back his seat. His dad turned on the television. He always flipped through every channel and never settled on one. He changed at commercials and sometimes even before that. It drove Pops nuts—it drove Pops even more nuts that he'd passed the trait on to Peter.

"It was fine," Peter said. "We're doing simple genetic testing on Friday in biology. We'll just be looking at a dormant gene, testing for one of two alleles."

"I see," said Pops. "And does that have anything to do with why he hit you? Because I don't remember dropping you off in that condition this morning."

"It's nothing," Peter said.

"I've seen a whole lot of nothing in my years," Pops said. "Usually it came from a big guy with an even bigger fist." Peter groaned.

"I don't want to talk about it Pops. It's nothing to worry about," he said.

"Sure," Pops replied. "I think we've got a couple rib-eyes in the fridge. I'm going to get you one."

"Pops," Peter groaned as his pops got up off the couch and went towards the kitchen. "It's not 1940 anymore. I could just ice it." Pops plopped the steak over his eye.

"That'll freeze your face real fast. This'll cool it," Pops explained. He sat back down and Peter grimaced at the feeling of raw meat on his skin. He glared at his dad, who had an expression of barely contained laughter.

"What? I didn't say anything. I'm not saying anything!" his dad said, but then he started laughing. He whipped out his phone.

"Daaaad," Peter said, trying to cover his face, but his dad managed to snap a picture anyway.

"Aw, our little boy, all grown up and getting beaten on. I hope you gave him as good as he got, Pete," his dad said. Peter mumbled something unintelligible, and his pops gave him a knowing, sympathetic look.

Peter hated that look.

"Anything else happen?" his Pops asked. Peter felt his stomach twist uncomfortably—did they know? Did they know about the award? Had Principal Mason called? He looked at Pops, who stared back expectantly.

"Well, uh," Peter started. It would be better for him to say something now if they already knew. If they caught him lying, there would be hell to pay. His dad would yell, and his Pops would get that 'I'm disappointed in you' look on his face that never failed to make Peter feel like he was two inches tall. "Uh…well, you know that Oscorp _Young Scientist_ award? Because—"

"_No_," his dad said emphatically. "No, Peter Parker, you are _not_ thinking of entering that contest. Not on my watch."

"A Young Scientist contest?" his Pops asked. "Well, I don't know, Tony. I know it's Oscorp, but that sounds like a great opportunity for Peter—"

"_No_!" Tony shouted. "No, it's _not_. Do you know how much environmental damage Oscorp does _per day_? And that's just the _legal_ statistics—do you know how much they're covering up? I will not have my son be associated in any way with _Norman Osborn_." He spat the name out like it was a curse word.

"Well—" Peter tried to speak, but he'd put his dad in a mood, and he wasn't having any of it.

"No!" Tony said. "You don't need that scholarship. Your pops and I can pay for your education just fine. You want to go to ESU? Fine, you can go to ESU. You can go wherever you want Peter, and I'm sure any university would be thrilled to get you, but you won't get there because of _Oscorp_."

"Tony, you're being unreasonable. If Peter wants to make his way in the world—" Steve said, but was also interrupted.

"Then he will, but he won't do it with Oscorp at his back! Besides, you _know_ he'd win, and what would we do then? They always want the parents to be involved with this sort of thing—what are we going to do? Hire actors? Or expose ourselves after trying to protect Peter all this time?"

"He's eighteen! We don't have to be involved with this, not publicly anyway. He wouldn't be in any danger—"

"You don't know that! And it doesn't even matter—I will not have Norman Osborn be the one to pay for my son's education, it's practically blood money—"

"Oh, Tony, stop being so overdramatic—"

Peter slipped away quietly while his dads argued. They always argued, but typically the bickering was at least partly playful. Lately, though, it sounded less like aggressive flirting and more like…aggression. Peter tiptoed up the stairs and slipped inside his room. He still had homework to do, after all. He got out his calculus textbook and started working. By the time he finished, his parents were still arguing, although they'd stopped arguing about Peter. They'd cycled through Peter, into what they'd been arguing about upon entering the house, into arguing about the fact that Tony never did the dishes, which he denied, into arguing about Steve's lack of a sense of humor and/or fun, into arguing about Tony's apparent ogling of the newest S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, who as far as Peter could tell was a woman named Eve. Peter found this at least partly funny, because it sounded like Steve, so through the walls it almost sounded like Steve was yelling at Tony for ogling his own husband's ass.

Peter took a shower, and he could still hear his parents arguing. They weren't yelling anymore, but they were still bickering in their room and Peter could hear them through the thin walls. Peter turned off the lights and slipped into bed.

"—where are you going, Steve?"

"I'm sleeping down stairs."

"Oh, come on, don't be like that—"

"Good _night,_ Tony."

Peter pulled a pillow over his head so he wouldn't have to hear any more. He felt guilty about bringing up the contest—it was obvious they didn't know. And now they were arguing again. Peter sighed. He'd go to Oscorp tomorrow and explain that the whole thing was just one giant mistake. Everything would be fine.

"FINE."

"FINE!"


	2. Chapter 2

Peter ambled down the stairs in the dark, yawning as he went. He'd woken up on time today, before his alarm went off. But it looked like his dads were a bit behind schedule. He flipped on the lights.

"Mmmmph," said Pops, who rolled over on the couch. He was tangled in blankets and sleeping with his legs draped over the back of the couch.

"Uh, Pops?" Peter asked.

"Hunh?" asked Pops. He blinked a couple of times then looked around. "Peter?" He righted himself quickly. "Peter! What time is it? Did you miss school?"

"Relax, Pops, it's only 6:30," said Peter.

"Oh," Pops replied. He threw off the blanket, got up, and stretched. "Well I better get started on breakfast, then. What do you want today, pancakes?"

"Yeah, pancakes would be good. Thanks Pops," Peter said. Pops ruffled Peter's hair as he made his way into the kitchen. Peter sat down on the couch and grabbed his notebook, which he'd forgotten on the coffee table the night before—but his comic wasn't the first picture he came across. This drawing mirrored the last panel on the page before, but instead of Captain America, Iron Man, and the Iron Avenger, it was a drawing of Pops with his arm around Dad, and each of them with a hand on Peter's shoulders as he stood in front of them. They were all smiling, and Peter could see the globe featured every year at Stark Expo behind them. Peter smiled softly at the drawing. Pops must have done it before he went to sleep—he was an incredible artist. Peter put his notebook into his backpack before heading into the kitchen to help his Pops with breakfast.

"So, what are you up to today, squirt?" his Pops asked him as he stirred some batter.

"Oh, uh, I think I'm just going to head to the library after school. I wanted to do some research on small-scale genetic engineering. You know, bacteria and that sort of thing," Peter lied. Really, he was going to make his way over to Oscorp and explain the mistake that had been made, but Pops didn't need to know that.

"Oh. Sounds complicated," Pops said. He poured some batter on the griddle, forming a perfect circle. Peter never understood how he managed that—his own pancakes tended to be much more blob-shaped. Peter opened up the fridge and got out a pack of bacon. He put a pan on the stovetop and turned on the gas. "Are you planning your science fair entry already this year?"

"Uh, something like that," Peter said. More like undoing the damage from the last one. Peter put some bacon in the pan. He noticed Pops staring at him. "What?"

"Are you entering that Young Scientist contest?" Pops asked.

"What?" Peter asked. "No, no, Pops, it's not that at all—"

"Because I think you should," Pops said. He flipped the pancake. It was a perfect golden brown color. Peter just blinked at his Pops.

"You think I should? Why? It would make Dad _so angry_," Peter said, puzzled.

"This isn't about your Dad, Peter," Pops said seriously, his blue eyes still looking intently at his son. "You might want to flip that bacon over, son." Peter nearly jumped when he realized the bacon was starting to burn. He flipped it over, ripping two pieces in half in the process. He turned back to his Pops, who now had six perfect pancakes on the griddle. "Look, Peter. Neither your Dad nor I are self-made men. Your Dad inherited his company. I was given my strength. We both know that it's ten times as hard to prove yourself when everything you are isn't your own." Pops put the pancakes onto a plate and added more batter to the griddle. "If you want to be a self-made man, Peter, if you want to prove yourself with a contest, I think you should go for it. But your Dad and I will be proud of you no matter what you choose."

"Thanks, Pops. But I'm not entering the contest," Peter said. That, at least, wasn't a lie.

"Whatever makes you happy, Peter," Pops said. Peter scooped the bacon onto a plate and took the food to the table. "We know you'd steamroll those other kids."

"Pops," Peter groaned. Pops just chuckled. He put another six pancakes on the plate and then joined Peter at the table. Peter heard the gentle thump of feet on the stairs, and seconds later his dad appeared in just sweatpants and a wife-beater. The arc reactor keeping him alive glowed bright blue through the fabric. He stretched and yawned.

"Well you two have been working hard for such an ungodly hour," Dad said.

"Tony, it's seven in the morning," Pops said. He got up and grabbed a couple of mugs from the cabinet. Tony plopped in a chair at the kitchen table.

"Exactly," he said. He took a fork and put two big pancakes onto Peter's plate before grabbing a couple for himself. Steve set down a mug of coffee in front of Tony. They shared a look—it was a look that Peter knew well. It meant that all was forgiven—on both sides—and that nothing more would be said about it. Tony took the mug. Peter took a bite of his pancakes. "So. What's the plan for today?"

"You're going to work," Steve said. "Peter's going to school, and then the library for a bit. And I'm—I don't know. Cleaning the house and checking in at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters to check the status on the—" He looked at Peter, then back to Tony. "—the situation." Tony nodded.

"So what are you _really_ doing Peter?" Dad asked. Peter nearly choked on his pancakes.

"W-what?" he asked.

"What is it? A party? With alcohol and half naked girls? Drugs? Is Uncle Bruce giving you his ganja?" Tony said.

"Uncle Bruce does weed?" Peter asked.

"No, your Dad just likes to pretend that he does," Pops said, an amused grin on his face. Tony took a big bite of pancake and then swallowed.

"I mean the library—really? What kind of kid did we raise, Steve?" Tony asked. Steve chuckled and shook his head.

"A good one, the last time I checked," he said. Tony shook his head.

"I knew signing him up for the boy scouts was a bad idea. But you just looked so cute in that tight little scout leader uniform—"

"Oh _God_, ok slowly going into territory that will destroy my sanity _and _my childhood at the same time, dads," Peter said quickly.

"Then what are you still doing here? Don't you have a bus to catch?" Tony asked. Peter looked at his watch. 7:30. _Crap_. He shoveled the last bit of pancake into his mouth and ran to the living room to pick up his backpack and camera.

"Have a good day, son!" his dads said at the same time, just as Peter ran out the front door.

"Bye!" Peter called back.

Amazingly, he was just in time for the bus that morning, and the ride was relatively uneventful. He walked down the hall at school and got to his locker. He put away his books and got out what he needed for English class.

"—I swear I didn't say anything!" Peter looked across the hall. Flash had cornered Mark Thompson, one of the geekiest, wimpiest seniors at Midtown High. He might have been even worse of a nerd than Peter.

"Yeah? Then how did Mr. Kaplan _know_ I didn't write it?" Flash asked, furious.

"Maybe because you're so stupid it was obvious that Mark's writing wasn't yours," Peter said loudly, shutting his locker door. A couple of kids in the hall 'oooh'ed. Peter swallowed as Flash turned around slowly.

"What did you just say, Parker?" he asked in an undertone.

"You heard me," Peter said, sounding braver than he felt. Flash moved away from Mark, who ran as soon as he saw the opportunity. He started towards Peter who, this time, was at least smart enough to back himself towards the open hall rather than the wall of lockers.

"I always knew you were a faggot, Parker, but I didn't know you'd get off on me beating you up," Flash said savagely.

"What can I say?" Peter asked dryly. "I just can't resist a philistine with a penchant for picking on the weak." Flash screwed up his face real funny, and Peter smirked. "Oh, sorry, philistine's probably too big for you, isn't it? It means _fucking moron_." Flash took a swing, but Peter ducked—Flash didn't catch him until the next swing, which caught Peter on the jaw and sent him staggering backwards, his teeth clanging together painfully.

"You are so dead, Parker," Flash said. Peter put up his fists. Flash laughed. "What are you gonna do with those, fag? Break them on my abs? Go ahead, I'll give you a free punch." He splayed his arms wide. "Come and get me, Parker." It was probably foolish, but Peter took the bait. He threw a punch right at Flash's stomach—and instantly felt like he must have broken his hand. His _entire_ hand. Peter drew it back in pain, and Flash just laughed at the look on his face. "I don't even _need_ to beat you up, Parker. You're doing just fine on your own." He grabbed Peter by his shoulders and lifted him off the ground, pinning him to the lockers. Peter felt his stomach knot as he had that internal _oh shit_ moment. Flash smiled nastily. "But I'm still going to anyway."

"Mr. Thompson! Mr. Parker! What's going on?" Mr. Kaplan came down the hall, a furious expression on his face. Peter nearly rolled his eyes. What did it _look_ like was going on? Flash put Peter down and took his hands off him.

"Nothing, sir," said Flash. "Just chatting."

"Yeah, just chatting, I'm sure. Did you chat yesterday, too? Is that why Mr. Parker has a black eye this morning?" Mr. Kaplan asked, folding his arms.

"I don't know how Parker messed up his eye," Flash said easily.

"Parker?" Mr. Kaplan asked. Peter shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't a snitch.

"I fell. On a doorknob. It's a long story," Peter said. Mr. Kaplan frowned.

"Get to class. Both of you," he said. As Peter passed, he pulled him aside. "You know, Parker, I can't help you if you won't help yourself."

"I can deal with my own problems," Peter said. Mr. Kaplan shook his head.

"You don't have to play the hero, Parker. There's no shame in asking for help," Mr. Kaplan said. Peter bristled.

"Thanks, Mr. Kaplan, but really, I'm fine," Peter said briskly. He walked past Mr. Kaplan and took his seat in English class, which was, once again, right behind Gwen Stacy. She turned as he sat down.

"Are you ok, Peter?" she asked. "I saw Flash going after you and got Mr. Kaplan. He didn't hit you again, did he?"

"You got Mr. Kaplan?" Peter asked. He'd thought for sure it was Mark.

"I wasn't going to let him beat you up in the middle of the hallway," Gwen said, sounding scandalized. Peter gave a small smile.

"Thanks, Gwen," he said. Gwen smiled back.

"You're welcome," she said. The bell rang and she turned back around. Mr. Kaplan shut the door and started his lecture. Peter pulled out his notebook and started to draw his comic again. Just an ordinary Wednesday morning.

Peter glanced at his phone, double-checking the address of Oscorp head quarters. It was, unsurprisingly, only a couple of blocks from Stark Industries, but Peter had never bothered to come by the lesser tower. It was impressive, Peter had to admit, with its hexagonal windows and OSCORP written all down the side. But, Peter concluded, it looked rather gloomy and industrial compared to the light and airy Stark Industries building.

Peter made his way through the revolving doors and into the lobby. Everything seemed to be made of marble. Peter walked over to the welcome desk. A pretty brunette with her hair in a slick bun typed away at a computer. She didn't look up as Peter approached. Peter cleared his throat, but still no reaction.

"Uh, excuse me," Peter said. The woman blinked and then looked up slowly, disdainfully. "Yeah, hi, my name is Peter Parker and I was hoping I could talk to someone about the Young Scientist competition—"

"We have fliers over there," the woman said shortly and then looked back at her screen.

"No, see, I was entered—"

"We do not take complaints or questions about losing projects. It's in the terms of service," the woman said and then leveled a glare at him.

"No, see, that's the thing, I didn't lose. But I need to talk to whomever's in charge of the contest because—"

"That would be Mr. Osborn himself," the woman sighed. "He judges every Young Scientist competition. What's your name?"

"Peter. Peter Parker," Peter said. "But there's been a mistake—"

"I can get you an appointment with Mr. Osborn in…July," the woman replied. Peter blinked.

"_July_?" he asked. "But—"

"That's the best I can do, Mr. Parker," the woman said curtly.

"No, but you don't understand—there's an exhibition next week, and I'm supposed to RSVP—"

"Weren't you given a number to perform that action?" the woman asked.

"Yes, but—"

"I suggest you take your problems through the _proper_ channels, young man," the woman said, and then she turned back to her computer.

"But—" Peter's protest was shot down with a hostile glare. Peter closed his lips.

_What now_? Peter thought, looking around. He slowly edged over to the floor directory on the wall. _Executive Offices_ was listed as being on the forty-fifth floor, the top floor. Peter glanced surreptitiously at the brunette. She wasn't watching him. There wasn't anyone else in the lobby. Peter jabbed the elevator button. The elevator dinged and opened. The brunette looked up in alarm, and Peter ducked inside.

"Hey!" she called out, getting up from the desk. Peter pressed the _close doors_ button before punching in 45. "HEY!" The woman appeared just as the doors had a crack left. Peter smiled and waved as the doors shut before the enraged woman could stick a hand through. The elevator sped upwards, going uninterrupted all the way to the 45th floor. It opened out onto another lobby. This time a blonde sat at an oak desk, chatting either to herself or to someone via Bluetooth. Peter couldn't tell, but he guessed it was the latter. She pressed the small device on her ear, giving Peter a funny look.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I need to see Mr. Osborn. It's about the Young Scientist contest—my name is Peter Parker, and I'm the winner this year, but—" Peter started, but he was again interrupted.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Well, no, but I just found out yesterday, and here's the thing, I didn't—"

"I can't get you in to see Mr. Osborn if you don't have an appointment, Mr. Parker," the blonde said with a bit of a frown.

"Look, I know, I get it, but the thing is—"

"Why don't I make an appointment for you?" she asked. She typed a few things on her computer. "How does July sound?"

"No, see, July is way too late, there's this exhibition next week—" Peter tried to explain, but just then a door opened, and a bunch of men began to exit, laughing.

"And that, gentlemen, is what Oscorp calls _assisted negotiation_," spoke a man in a very nice suit. The men all laughed again.

"I like your style, Norman," spoke another man—a General, Peter thought, going by the decorations on his uniform. The General clapped the man in the nice suit on the shoulder. "We'll call with our offer."

"I look forward to it," said the other man, Norman Osborn Peter assumed. Peter stepped aside as the General and a few other military types left out the elevator. Peter saw his opening and took it.

"Mr. Osborn! Sir! I need to speak with you!" Peter said quickly. Mr. Osborn looked at Peter curiously, just noticing his presence.

"You don't have an appointment!" the blonde said shrilly.

"It's ok, Rhonda, let the boy speak. What's your name, young man?" Mr. Osborn asked.

"Peter Parker, sir, I'm the winner of your—"

"My young scientist competition, yes I know—you made that brilliant cell generation enhancement serum," Mr. Osborn said with a smile. He took Peter's hand and shook it. "It's good to meet you in person, and good to see you're quite the enterprising young man! What can I do for you today, Mr. Parker?"

"Well, see, the thing is, _yes_, that's my serum, but I never entered the Young Scientist contest—that was my entry to my school's science fair last year, and the principal entered me in this contest. But the thing is, my Dad kind of—uh, well, let's just say he isn't Oscorp's biggest fan and he would _kill_ me if he knew I'd entered this contest, so, I'm really sorry Mr. Osborn, but you should just pick another winner," Peter said all in one breath, afraid someone would interrupt him yet again. Mr. Osborn frowned.

"Oh, I see," he said. "What a shame—Peter, do you have a minute?" Peter blinked.

"Um, yeah, I guess," he said. His pops wouldn't expect him home until six or seven, and it was only four-thirty. Mr. Osborn put his arm around Peter's shoulder.

"Rhonda, clear my schedule for the next half hour at least," he said.

"But, sir—"

"Just do it, Rhonda," Mr. Osborn said. "Come take a walk with me, Peter." Mr. Osborn steered him back into the elevator, which they took down to the fourth floor. The doors opened and, had Peter not been well acquainted with his father's labs at Stark Industries, he would have gasped. The lab was huge and it was filled with researchers in white lab coats.

"This, Peter, is where all of the research and development of Oscorp is carried out," Mr. Osborn said. He led Peter through the floor, pointing out various experiments and accomplishments as he went. Peter felt a bit guilty—could this count as corporate espionage?—but mostly he was excited. His Dad still made weapons, sure, but their main business was in green energy and other green technology. It was fun to see all of Oscorp's military designs.

"…and over here is where we've kept your little project, Peter, until we're ready to display it next week," continued Mr. Osborn. Indeed, Peter could see the tri-fold that explained his experiment, and the sample of the serum in a glass phial. "Very impressive, Mr. Parker. We've housed it here with our other biological experiments—Doctor Connors was particularly interested in your work. He's looking to develop large scale cellular regeneration, and he thinks the formula for your serum might help with his research. Shall we go say hello?" Peter nodded, and he followed Mr. Osborn down a hall and into another room. This room was lined with glass cages. The sound of hissing from all the lizards and snakes and other critters made the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand on end. He could see plenty of small cages containing insects as well—the tarantulas and other spiders gave Peter the 'heebie jeebies' as his pops might say. At the back of the room sat a man looking into a microscope, and beside him, writing notes on a clipboard was a girl, presumably his assistant. She was blonde and—

"Gwen?" Peter blurted out in surprise. Gwen looked up, startled.

"Peter?" she asked. Doctor Connors looked up.

"Mr. Osborn," he said.

"Doctor Connors!" Mr. Osborn replied. "Well, now we're all introduced! Doctor Connors, this is Peter Parker, our winner of the Young Scientist award."

"Parker?" he asked. "Oh, yes, the cell generation serum—brilliant work, young man. I don't get half as much innovation from most of my grad students," Doctor Connors said with a grin. He held his hand out and Peter shook it.

"Nice to meet you, sir," Peter said.

"Pleasure's all mine," Dr. Connors said. "I'd love to sit down and chat with you sometime about your research—I'm working on limb regeneration at the moment." He laughed and tapped his left shoulder, which, Peter was startled to notice, had no arm attached. "I've got selfish reasons for that, obviously."

"I'd love to work with you some time, Doctor Connors," Peter said earnestly.

"Great! Maybe I can have you and Gwen working as a team, eh?" Dr. Connors said.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea, Doctor Connors," Mr. Osborn said. "Now, I'm afraid I need to get back to the office now, but I'll leave you in Doctor Connors' capable hands, Peter." He clapped Peter on the shoulder and met his eyes. "I really hope you'll rethink your decision." Mr. Osborn got out a business card and slipped it into peter's jacket pocket. "Give me a call if you do."

"Sure, Mr. Osborn. Thank you, sir," Peter said. Mr. Osborn nodded and then walked out the door. Peter turned to Gwen. "So what are you doing here, Gwen?"

"I've got a voluntary internship here for the next couple of weeks," Gwen said.

"Gwen has been an enormous help already. Indispensable—if you're not careful, young lady, I might end up hiring you on," Dr. Connors joked. "So, Parker, what do you think so far of our little operation here at Oscorp?"

"It's…pretty fantastic," Peter admitted. He approached a glass cage containing some sort of yellow and black salamander. "So for limb regeneration you're researching the way salamanders re-grow their appendages?"

"That's right," Doctor Connors said. "Hopefully, one of these little guys will hold the key to helping millions of amputees the world over." Gwen followed beside him as he inspected all the different lizards and salamanders.

"So cool," Peter breathed. Gwen grinned.

"I completely agree. Doctor Connors' research is just—_fascinating_," Gwen said. Peter smiled at her.

"I didn't know you had a thing for science," he said. Gwen shrugged.

"You never asked," she said simply. Peter felt his heart skip again as she looked at him.

"Uh—no, no I guess I didn't," he said, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Why hadn't he combed his hair again before he left school? And, oh, God, was this shirt even clean?

"Well, I really need to be getting back to my research," said an amused Dr. Connors from behind them. They turned around. "But, I'm sure if you wanted to have more of a look around, Gwen would be happy to show you, right Gwen?"

"Of course!" Gwen said.

"Uh, sure, sounds great," Peter said. "Thank you, Dr. Connors." Dr. Connors settled back down at his microscope.

"No problem, Mr. Parker. I hope to see you around again soon," he said. With that, Gwen took his hand—Peter was suddenly glad that he didn't blush easily.

"Come on—they're prepping one of the best new inventions in the place for the exhibit next week over this way," Gwen said, tugging him out of the room and back into the main research area. Gwen guided him past puzzled workers and giant equipment to an enclosed area near the back of the facility. A few scientists were gathered around, futzing with all sorts of switches and dials.

"What is this thing?" Peter asked Gwen. In the enclosure what looked like several large laser guns all aimed at a central point in the air.

"I'm not sure what they call it," Gwen explained, "but they think they've unlocked the way to affect and change existing DNA—you know, so you could replace defective chains in a living person." Peter blinked.

"No _way_," he said. He looked closely at all the different instruments. "That can't be possible. What are they using?"

"I don't know—it's some big secret," Gwen said. "But one of the guys told me it can affect change at the atomic level." Peter was skeptical. Not even his dad had ever managed something like that, and his dad was a genius.

"Hey! You kids! We're about to fire this up—step back," shouted one of the lab assistants. He threw them two pairs of goggles. "And put those on if you're going to stand around." Peter pulled the goggles over his head as Gwen did the same. They took a few steps back.

"All clear?" shouted a researcher.

"Clear!" called back the lab assistant.

"Starting at 20% capacity," the researcher called back, and then he pushed down a lever. The guns lit up in a bright white light, all focusing in the center. Peter could see that they had a phial of something in the middle, though he didn't know what.

"Increasing capacity to 50%," shouted the researcher. Peter had to admit that it looked similar to the process involved when his dad made new vibranium for arc reactor cores. "Increasing to 80%!" The light grew brighter, and the equipment hummed loudly. The phial in the middle began to shine. "90%!" It was pretty incredible to behold, really. Peter could feel the vibrations in the floor and through his whole body. But there was something swinging just above the light—what was that? Whatever it was it was getting swung pretty violently. Peter stepped forward, closer to the device—it was a spider, he thought, and there was no way it could hold onto that string of web for much longer—and it was directly in the path of the lasers!

Peter had no love for spiders, but he had no idea how this project might react to a life form getting thrown into it. He stepped even closer, opening his mouth to tell them to shut it down—

"Hey—"

"100%!" The light shone even brighter, and the vibrations nearly shook the whole building. The web snapped and the spider fell through the lasers—right onto Peter's hand.

"Gah!" Peter shouted. He flung his hand to get the little devil off, but it bit him before it went flying. "Ow."

"Peter! What's going on?" Gwen asked.

"Ok, and power down, folks," yelled the researcher. The device shut off and someone went to fetch the phial.

"Uh, nothing," Peter said. "Just a bug got on me."

"Oh," Gwen said. "It probably got out of Dr. Connor's lab."

"Yeah, probably," Peter agreed, examining the rather prominent bite on the back of his hand.

"Oh, that looks painful," Gwen said sympathetically. "I think we've got first aid around here somewhere."

"Uh, that's all right Gwen, I'm sure it'll be fine," Peter said. "I should really be getting home—my dad's expecting me." Truthfully, Pops probably wouldn't worry until nine or ten—Peter regularly stayed pretty late at the library. But suddenly he wasn't feeling too well.

"Oh, ok," Gwen said. She smiled. "It was nice seeing you, Peter. Make sure you clean up that bite—and you could probably do with some ice for that eye while you're at it." Peter laughed.

"Yeah, ok. Thanks for the tour, Gwen," Peter said. He headed towards the elevator, his stomach doing somersaults—and not the good kind. He stumbled out of Oscorp, breathing much more heavily than normal.

"Ok, this isn't good," Peter muttered to himself. Could he even make it to Brooklyn? Even with the subway, Peter felt he might end up passing out before he got there. He looked down the street. There was only one option—he'd have to walk to Stark Industries.

Peter had never seen his dad's company from a conventional view. He was always taking back doors from the underground garage, or flying into the helipad on top of the building. No one at the company knew of Peter's existence, for his own safety. But as Peter struggled to walk to the building, he wished that someone did—because what was he going to say when he got there?

"Just two more blocks, Pete," Peter muttered to himself. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead. There was no way that this was normal—what was it? Radiation sickness? _Fucking Oscorp_.

After what felt like an age, Peter finally saw the great Stark Industries building come into view Peter staggered towards it. He could feel the eyes of people on the street following him, but he didn't care. His vision was starting to get fuzzy. Peter shoved open a glass door to the building, relieved to be inside. Unlike Oscorp, the floor was hardwood, and the walls were all painted calming shades of light blue. There were potted plants arranged throughout the lobby and plenty of seating areas. Peter's first instinct was just to fall asleep on one of the leather couches, but even with his mind addled he knew that security would just throw him out. He walked to the front counter and leaned on it heavily.

"Can I…help you?" asked the man behind the counter.

"I…" Peter was finding it difficult to speak, difficult to stand, difficult to—anything. "I…need to see Tony Stark. Right now."

"Um, all right sir. Do you have an appointment?" asked the man. Peter groaned—enough with this appointment crap already! "Are you all right sir? Would you like me to call someone for you?"

"Yeah, my dad," Peter said, unthinking. "No. Wait. Tony Stark. I need to see him…immediately."

"Sir, are you in need of medical attention?" asked the man behind the desk.

"Just get my dad!" Peter nearly shouted. His knees started to buckle, and he was glad he was leaning on the counter.

"Look, kid, I'm going to call an ambulance," said the man, picking up the fancy black phone and pressing a button.

"No, no, no, just get my dad," Peter moaned. His head was swimming, his stomach was revolting, and his blood felt like it was boiling. "No, no, wait, tell Tony Stark Peter Parker is in the lobby, please. Please just…Peter Parker is in the lobby, that's all.

"Peter?" Peter would have turned around, but he wasn't capable of it. But he recognized that voice—it belonged to Uncle Clint. He felt Uncle Clint grab him under his arms and hold him up. "Peter, are you ok? What's going on?" Peter's head lolled back and he could see Uncle Clint looking at him in horror. He was dressed strangely—he was in a tux.

"Clint? Peter?" Another voice was added to the mix, and though Peter couldn't see anymore he knew it was his Aunt Tasha—he forgot that her day job was actually working for Stark Industries. Wait, why couldn't he see? Had he closed his eyes? He couldn't remember closing his eyes. Then again, he couldn't remember much of anything. Where was he again?

"Clint, go put him on the couch—Peter, can you hear me?" Peter felt himself floating through the air, and then he landed on something soft.

"Mmm," was all Peter could manage.

"What happened?" Clint asked, but Peter couldn't tell who he was asking, and at any rate he couldn't answer.

"I don't know, he just walked in like that," replied a panicked voice—the man at the counter, Peter thought. But the counter to what?

Stark Industries! Right! Peter opened his eyes—his vision was blurred, like he'd taken out his contacts. Light shone brightly above him—so brightly, so painfully that he closed his eyes again with a soft moan.

"—go get Tony down here now."

"—needs an ambulance—"

"—Tony—"

"—call Steve—"

The voices were too muffled and were speaking too quickly for Peter to understand. He felt like he was floating far above the clouds and everyone else was still on earth, too far away to hear, and eventually Peter floated right off into unconsciousness.

Peter yawned. What time was it? He opened his eyes and shifted to look at his alarm clock—he was surprised to see his dad sitting in the corner of his room, reading something on a clear tablet.

"Dad?" Peter asked. His dad put down the tablet and was instantly at his side.

"Peter!" he said. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel fine," Peter said. "What—" He was going to ask what his dad was doing in his room, but suddenly his memory came flooding back and he paused.

"What happened after you passed out?" Dad asked for clarification.

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Well, I came down to the lobby in a panic, and you'd scared your Uncle Clint and Aunt Tasha half to death, not to mention my receptionist. I'm pretty sure you ruined their date, Peter—Aunt Tasha and Uncle Clint's date, that is," Dad said. "We took you to the hospital, but by the time we got there, they said you were fine. Nothing wrong with you that they could tell. Told us to take you home and just let you get some sleep. You woke up a couple of times in between getting to the hospital and leaving the hospital, but I doubt you remember—you were pretty out of it."

"No, I don't remember anything," Peter said.

"Do you remember what happened? Why were you at HQ, Peter?" Dad asked. Peter thought—and then he remembered. And _then_ he lied.

"Well, I was at the library, and when I finished I decided to take a walk in the park—a bug bit me and then I started feeling weird. After a couple of minutes I realized I wouldn't make it back home, but HQ wasn't far away so I just tried to make it there," Peter said. It was close _enough_ to the truth, right?

"So maybe it was an allergic reaction," his dad said. He pulled Peter suddenly into a hug. "Ok, no more nature walks for you. And I'm going to get you a prescription for Epipens from now on."

"Daaaad," Peter groaned at his dad's over-protectiveness. Tony took Peter's face in his hands, looking him right in the eyes, eyes that exactly mirrored his own.

"I thought I was going to lose you Peter," Tony said seriously. "Never. Again. _Never_." This time Peter pulled his dad into a hug, feeling suddenly quite guilty—guilty for not telling the truth, and guilty for making his dad worry himself sick. Eventually Tony pulled away. "I need to tell your pops you're awake. Oh, and Aunt Tasha and Uncle Clint—they were too concerned to leave until they knew you were better—they're downstairs." Peter felt doubly guilty. "I'm glad you're ok, son."

"Me too," Peter said. His dad disappeared out the door. Barely a minute later his pops barreled into his room and wrapped Peter in a hug so tight Peter could barely breathe.

"Don't you dare," said Pops, "ever scare us like that again." Peter chuckled.

"I'll do my best to avoid all insects and arachnids in the future," he replied. Pops ruffled his hair.

"You better," he said. Aunt Tasha came in through the door, followed by Uncle Clint. Uncle Clint was still dressed in his tux, and Aunt Tasha was in a ruby red backless gown. Presumably she also had heels, but she was walking barefoot through the Stark-Rogers-Parker house.

"Oh, I ruined a really nice date, didn't I?" Peter asked apologetically.

"Hey, don't worry about it champ," Uncle Clint said. "You're more important than a date."

"We're just glad you're fine, Peter," Aunt Tasha agreed. "We'll get going now, we just wanted to make sure you'd be ok." They each gave Peter a quick hug before saying goodbye to Steve and leaving.

"So, kiddo, what movie do you want to watch? It's already one in the afternoon—no point in sending you to school, and I'm not letting you get out of this bed, anyway," Pops said.

"Well, what've we got?" Peter asked. Pops started to cycle through the DVDs they owned, but by the time Tony came back upstairs they'd already moved on to Netflix, turning on the latest _Star Trek_ movie. Steve made popcorn, Tony made a running commentary through the entire film about similar technologies Stark Industries was working on, and Peter made sure that neither of his dads fussed over him too much.

Peter, of the three, was the least successful in his venture.

At night, the tiny family all fell asleep together on Peter's bed, a superman movie still running in the background. And Peter was sure that his life had returned to normal—well, as normal as it ever was.

How very wrong he was indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

An alarm clock screeched. Peter heard a shout, and then a _thump_. His blankets had disappeared. He opened his eyes to see his dad on the floor, tangled in the blankets and looking clearly startled. Peter laughed at him before he reached over and turned off the alarm.

"You wake up to _that_ every morning?" Dad asked. "God, kid, remind me to get you one of those crazy new age alarm clocks that…I don't know, wakes you up with the gentle sound of waves or something."

"I will never wake up with that," Peter said. "Better to get me the Japanese one that runs away and hides."

"Oh, God—my worst nightmare," his Dad said. He got up off the floor and threw the blankets back on the bed, covering Peter. "Feel like going to school today?"

"Yeah, I guess," Peter replied, uncovering his face. He looked around. "Hey where's Pops?" Tony looked around.

"Probably making breakfast," he answered. "Get dressed and I'll take you to school this morning."

"No hunt for the bus today?" Peter asked jokingly.

"Milk this situation right and you might end up with a bike of your own," Dad teased.

"Oh? A bike? How about a go round in one of the suits—"

"Don't push it."

"_Fine_." His dad left the room and shut the door behind him so that Peter could get dressed. Peter stripped down to his boxers and opened his closet.

"That…is not how I left my body," Peter said aloud, in shock. The mirror on the back of his closet must be faulty. Did Dad replace it with a trick mirror as a prank? Peter examined himself from all angles—he was…kind of buff. He was still a bit…wiry and small, but now he was more solid. It wasn't exactly a Captain America worthy transformation, but it was still incredibly noticeable. Peter checked the edges and the back of the mirror, but it didn't appear to be changed in any way.

"Peter stop primping it's already 7:30!" Tony called up the stairs.

"Crap," Peter said. He put the change in his body as far out of his mind as he could—oh, who was he kidding? He was still marveling at himself as he put on his shirt and pants. He went to put in his contacts when he realized—nothing was blurry, and he wasn't wearing his glasses. He checked the mirror but, sure enough, his contacts weren't in. "Ok, officially the weirdest day ever…" Peter threw his school stuff in his backpack, shoved his feet in his shoes and headed downstairs. Pops and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table. Pops had made scrambled eggs for breakfast, but Peter knew he didn't have any time for that. Pops must have known too, because the minute Peter set foot into the kitchen, two pop-tarts sprung up from the toaster.

"Take it easy today, Peter," Pops said as Dad got up from the table.

"I'll try, Pops," Peter said. His Dad put on his helmet and they went outside. Peter knew that his dads had a nickname in the neighborhood, and that was 'the masked motorcyclist'. Some of the neighbors swore it was one man, and others argued that it was most definitely two. Either way, none of the neighbors had ever seen the masked motorcyclist(s?) leave the house without a helmet. The mystery of the masked motorcyclist had become almost an urban legend over the eighteen years that they had lived in the house (and, Peter thought, it was on its way to becoming a Nancy Drew novel), and that was why it had become almost a _hazard_ for his dad and his pops to step outside in daylight hours. All the neighbors craned to get a good look. It was why Dad had been talking about getting a new house, lately—but Steve, who had lived in Brooklyn his whole life—wasn't having any of it. But Peter felt the stares of the neighbors on his back as he and his dad hurtled down the street to school. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

Peter hopped off the bike when he got to school and said goodbye to his dad. He walked up the familiar steps and went down the old path to his locker. Despite the odd morning, it was looking like just another day at Midtown High.

"—and then I'm going to hit you so hard your grandma will be able to feel it!"

Yup, just another day at Midtown High indeed. Peter looked around until his eyes fell on Flash, who was intimidating Mark again. Mark cowered in a corner, pleading with the guy.

"I didn't snitch, Flash! I didn't! It wasn't me, honest! Please don't hit me!" But Flash drew back his fist anyway. What was _wrong_ with this guy? Peter rushed over and grabbed Flash's fist.

"Knock it off, Flash," Peter said. Flash batted his hand away and turned to face Peter instead. Once again, Mark ran off.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you Parker?" Flash asked.

"This? I could do this all year," Peter said easily. Peter noticed a crowd began to form—they knew that they were about to watch Peter get creamed.

"Or maybe, I'll do all the beating I'd usually give you in a year _right now_, and if you _live_, maybe you'll stop messing with my negotiations," Flash said, cracking his knuckles.

"Hit me with your best shot, you stupid bully," Peter spat. Flash charged. Peter's eyes widened, his adrenaline surged—and suddenly time seemed to slow down. Peter could clearly see everything that was happening. He could see that Flash had left his left side completely open and that he was partly off-balance. He could see that the tag of his shirt was up in the back. He could see there was a kid picking his nose at the end of the hall, could tell that Sally was fending off the flirtations of Malcom Matthews, but most importantly, he could see the fist coming at him, and he could step right out of the way. Flash threw another punch, but Peter dodged it. He threw another, and another, and another—but he couldn't land one on Peter. Peter couldn't believe it—neither could Flash.

"Come on, Parker," Flash roared. "Man up and fight me!" He took another swing, but Peter dodged again, never even having to step aside. By now a definited crowd had formed around them. Flash's punches became more furious, but still he couldn't land them. Peter could hear cheers every time he dodged. From the corner of his eye he noticed Gwen, smiling and rooting for him. He started to smiled back when a fist connected with his face and he fell to the floor. Flash grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up. "And now you're gonna pay, faggot."

Flash drew back to punch, but Peter caught his fist in mid-flight. He turned his wrist the wrong way—Flash screamed obscenities and let go of Peter with his other hand. Peter let go of Flash's wrist. The crowd cheered and Peter grinned. He picked up his backpack, which he'd dropped in the commotion, and started to walk away. But Flash wasn't done yet. With a feral cry, Flash lunged at his back—but this time, Peter was ready. He whipped around and hit him squarely in the nose, Flash's own charge making the blow ten times worse. Peter heard a sickening crack, and Flash staggered away, howling in pain and clutching a bleeding nose.

"By bose! You broke by bose!" Flash said thickly, unable to pronounce his Ms or Ns properly. Blood poured out of his hands. Peter felt ill.

"What's going _on_?" shouted a furious, adult voice. It was Mr. Kaplan, and this time Mark _was_ beside him.

"By bose!" Flash groaned. "He broke by bose!"

"Parker?" Mr. Kaplan asked in disbelief.

"It was self-defense!" Peter was surprised to see Jake Andrews stick up for him. "Flash was trying to beat the crap out of Peter."

Mr. Kaplan sighed deeply and massaged the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.

"Thompson, Parker—to the principal's office," he said. When neither of them moved, he glared and said, "_Now_." Peter picked up his bag and headed to the office, Flash walking dejectedly beside him and Mr. Kaplan walking behind them both. The bell rang and the halls cleared as the two boys stepped into the principal's office.

"Kaplan?" Principal Mason asked, puzzled. "What's going on here?"

"Parker and Thompson decided it would be a great idea to have an all out brawl in the hallway," Mr. Kaplan replied. "It would seem that Mr. Parker has broken Mr. Thompson's nose, but I have been informed that this was 'in self-defense' by a student witness, and I'm rather inclined to believe it." Principal Mason sighed and waved his hand.

"Yes, yes, all right Will. You can get back to your class now—oh, but could you tell Nurse Jackson to get in here?" Principal Mason said. Mr. Kaplan nodded and then left the office. "Well, boys, it's just us now, isn't it?" The Principal stared at them both hard, but Peter didn't say anything, and Flash was preoccupied with trying not to bleed on the carpet. Principal Mason sighed again and handed him the box of tissues from his desk. Flash took the box, stuffing Kleenex up his nose. "Are either of you going to say anything for yourselves?" Peter didn't speak, but neither did Flash. The principal sighed for the first time and flipped open a spiral-bound book.

"I'll have to call your parents, then," he said, flipping through the book.

Peter groaned internally. He didn't even know what his parents would do—hire an actor, maybe? Convince Uncle Bruce or Uncle Clint to pose as his dad? Peter sunk further into the chair, clutching his backpack. One thing was for sure—he was in deep trouble.

Principal Mason had set up a parent-teacher conference for that afternoon, right after school, and had sent both Flash and Peter back to class. It was now the last class of the day, biology, and Peter was just counting down the minutes to his death. Would it be a swift death, provided by his dad? Or would it be the excruciating, painful kind exacted by his pops? With his luck, it would probably be the latter.

"—and pull out the tray when you're finished. The purple section will either be in column A or column B, and that should tell you which allele you have," said Mr. Stromberg, the biology teacher.

"Peter. Peter, yours is done," whispered Gwen. Peter started—so it was. "Which do you have? Mine's lit up in column A." Peter opened up the tray and looked at the sample.

"Uh, both," Peter said. "It's purple in both—that can't be right, can it?" Peter asked with a frown. Gwen shrugged. Peter raised his hand and Mr. Stromberg approached.

"Yes, Peter?" he asked.

"Mine tested positive for both," Peter said, showing him the tray. Mr. Stromberg frowned.

"That's not…I'm afraid that's not genetically possible, Peter. You must have done something wrong at some point in the experiment. But it doesn't matter—this is a dormant gene, anyway," Mr. Stromberg said, and then he moved on to help Mark with something.

"But I know I did this right," Peter murmured, looking over the lab directions once more.

"We all make mistakes, Peter," Gwen said. The bell rang.

"Turn in your reports before you leave!" Mr. Stromberg cried as everyone made a mad rush for the door. Gwen slung her satchel over her shoulder.

"So what are you doing this weekend, Peter?" she asked.

"Avoiding slaughter," Peter replied. "Principal Mason called my parents in for a conference this afternoon. You know, about Flash's nose."

"He's a bully," Gwen said firmly. "What goes around comes around. But I guess they'll have to ground you, won't they?"

"Probably," Peter agreed, though he didn't really know. He'd never been grounded in his life—his parents rarely needed to punish him. Gwen gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Too bad. I'm going to see the new Batman movie—thought you might want to come with me," she said.

"I can always sneak out of the house," Peter said quickly, and Gwen laughed.

"Why don't you just give me a call? If you're grounded, we can go next weekend," she suggested. She slipped him a bit of notebook paper on which she'd written her cell number. "Unless you've been grounded until you're thirty or something."

"I'm not sure I'd put it past them," Peter said with a half-smile.

"Well it's not going to help your case if you're late," Gwen said. "I'll see you soon, Peter." She waved goodbye and Peter watched her go, a little bit in a daze. Had—had Gwen Stacy just asked him out? This really _was_ the weirdest day ever. Peter put on his backpack and hurried down to the principal's office—Gwen had a point, after all.

When he arrived at the office, he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing. Principal Mason was behind his desk, looking a bit baffled, and with good reason—Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries and the superhero Iron Man was sitting in front of him.

"Dad?" Peter blurted out. He hadn't _actually_ expected either of his dads to show up. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Why aren't you being the good kid I know you are?" Dad countered. He got up to face Peter. "Why are you going around punching people?" Peter groaned.

"It wasn't _like that_, Dad—"

"Oh it wasn't like that? Then tell me how it _was_ like Peter. Did you _not_ break another student's nose?"

"He started it—"

"And you sure as shit finished it, didn't you?" his dad said hotly. Principal Mason cleared his throat.

"Uh, Mr. …Stark, sir…this is Mr. Parker's first offense here at Midtown High, and given information supplied by eyewitnesses, we've decided not to pursue any further disciplinary action. We trust you'll handle the situation at home," he said, looking clearly uncomfortable.

"Absolutely," Tony said, still giving Peter _the look_. He grabbed his jacket and put on his motorcycle helmet. Peter followed his dad out the door.

"Dad—"

"We'll talk about this when we get home," Dad said through his helmet. They left the school and Peter rode home on the back of his dad's bike. Before they went into the house, Dad warned him, "You've put Pops into a cleaning spree. Watch your step."

_Oh, no_, Peter thought as he opened the door. Pops on a cleaning spree was never a good thing. He was naturally cleaner than either Tony or Peter and often moaned at them to pick up their stuff, but generally he didn't mind their messes. But whenever something made him particularly mad—usually something Tony had done, like going out and getting completely trashed, or not sleeping for days on end despite Steve's best efforts to make him go to bed—he put on the gloves and the apron (_apron!_) and went all evil-forties-housewife on them. If you stepped in the kitchen when the floors had just been waxed you'd better be prepared for an earful. And Peter had only ever heard his pops curse like a proper soldier when his dad tracked mud onto said waxed floor. The problem with evil-housewife!Pops was that while taking his anger out by cleaning was productive, the fact that Peter and Tony had the tendency to destroy his cleaning only exacerbated the problem.

"Peter!" Pops yelled as he walked into the hallway. Pops was definitely in full on evil-housewife mode—he had on pink rubber gloves, a full apron, and a feather duster in his hand. Peter would have laughed were it not for the murderous expression on his face. "What were you thinking?"

"Uh," Peter said as Dad shut the door behind them and started for the kitchen.

"No, no, not the kitchen Tony, not with those boots on—"

"Oh, Steve, come _on_—"

"I'M JUST TRYING TO MAKE THE HOUSE LOOK NICE _FOR ONCE_!" Steve roared. Tony put his hands up slowly.

"No going in the kitchen. No stepping on the kitchen floor. Got it. I'm backing away now," Tony said. Steve pointed at Peter.

"You. Shoes off. Now," he said. He took off his gloves and handed them to Peter. "Go do the dishes."

"But—"

"_Go_." Peter wasn't going to try to argue with an angry Cap with a feather duster. It was a dangerous combination. Peter unlaced his converse shoes and put them neatly by the door, not wanting to invoke any more fury. His socks were slippery on the floor, but Peter had learned over the years how to walk when Pops was cleaning.

"I already gave him a hard time in the principal's office, Steve," Peter heard Dad say softly. "I think we just need to talk this one out."

"He _hit_ another kid, Tony."

"So? You were always hitting people and getting hit back in the forties—"

"It's not the forties anymore! He shouldn't be hitting people—"

"It was _one_ kid, and probably an asshole—"

Peter hated how they talked about him like he couldn't hear sometimes. Annoyed, he picked up the nearest dish in the pile and turned on the water, scrubbing it vigorously. They had a dishwasher—this was just punishment.

"I don't care if it was one kid or twenty, Tony, the principle's the same—"

"I would be a _lot_ more concerned if it was twenty, actually—"

"You're not taking this seriously, are you? You never take anything seriously."

"Oh, Steve, come on, I _told_ you, I already gave him a hard time of it—I just don't think he deserves any more shouting."

"Who said I was going to shout at him? When did I say that was the best way to discipline a kid?"

"You didn't _have_ to say it—it's the way you're acting, I know that's what you were going to do—"

"What do you mean, the way I'm acting?"

"The _cleaning_—you're mad and you're taking it out on the furniture. You do this every time."

"I do this every time? I do this every time Peter hits someone? Right, of course, because this has happened so many times! Just because I yell at _you_ after _you _do something stupid doesn't mean I'm going to yell at Peter—"

"Then why did you send him off to the kitchen to do the dishes for which we have a perfectly good dishwasher?"

"So that I _won't_ yell at him."

"That makes no sense."

"It makes _perfect_ sense."

"I think your brain is still a bit icy, Capsicle—"

"Oh, God, we're not starting _that_ again, are we? Because—"

Peter tried to shut out the sound of his dads fighting, but it was a difficult task. Peter squeezed out the very last bit of dishwashing liquid and cleaned out a pot. He looked around—did they have more soap in the pantry? Peter started towards it, but he forgot that the floors had been waxed. He slipped and reached out to the cabinet, but it was too late, he was going to fall and bruise his bum. But out from his hand shot something white. It stuck to the cabinet and Peter's reflexes grabbed it, stopping him inches from the floor.

"—no, Tony, we're not talking about _that_ right now, Peter's in the kitchen—"

Peter's heart was in his throat. He swung around a bit so that he could peak out the kitchen doorway; his dads were still arguing in the living room. He swung around again, his feet on the floor, his back parallel with the ground and about six inches up from it. Peter pulled himself up by the white rope, trying not to think about the fact that _oh God it was coming out of his arm_. He righted himself and examined it.

It looked like…it looked like…was it a…_web_?

"Peter? Why's the water off?" Tony called.

"Uhhh, it's nothing Dad!" Peter yelled back, frantically trying to get the white web off both the counter and his wrist. "Just—uh—looking for the soap."

"It's in the pantry," Pops said. And then he and Dad resumed their argument. Peter pulled at the web and it snapped, the force of it sending Peter sliding backwards. He reached out towards the pantry and yet again a web flew out and attached itself to the pantry door. Peter hung off it until he got his balance back—but now he had another web to get rid of.

"This is so not normal," Peter muttered under his breath as he tugged on the web, but it wouldn't budge. Peter pulled as hard as he could, but to no avail. His entire body weight strained against the web, but it accomplished nothing except dangerously bending the pantry door. Peter prayed that his parents wouldn't come into the kitchen. He pulled even harder but it wouldn't budge. "Ugh!" he relaxed his wrist, giving up, and the web detatched—but Peter was still unbalanced, having thrown all his weight into trying to get the web off, and now he went sliding backwards—right into the stack of dishes on the counter.

_Crash! Crash! Bang! Thump!_ Peter ended up slumped beneath the counter, wearing a pot for a hat, broken bits of china littering the floor around him. His dads ran to the entrance of the kitchen.

"Peter!" said Pops. "Peter are you ok?"

"Uh, fine," Peter said, removing the pot. "But I think I broke the dishes. All of them." Pops offered him a hand up and Peter took it, taking care not to slide right into him.

"That's ok, I never liked this pattern anyway," Tony said, picking up a broken bit of the floral-patterned dish and dropping it back onto the ground with another loud crash. Pops winced slightly. "These floors are dangerous like this. I keep telling you to use the swiffer—"

"You can't use a swiffer on a shellacked floor, Tony—"

"Then we'll just get new floors—"

"These floors are as old as _me_, you can't just _get rid _of them—" Peter gently reached behind him, scooping up the web on the counter. He edged away carefully, snatching the web off the pantry too, and as carefully as he could, he snuck up the stairs. Peter shut the door to his bedroom, genuinely freaked. He sat on his bed, looking closely at his right wrist. There was a spot whiter than all the rest, and in the center was a tiny little pinprick of a hole. Peter looked at his left wrist—the same was true for it.

"What the _fuck_," Peter said. Heart beating fast, He pointed his arm at the door. Nothing happened. Peter frowned. He reached toward the door and the web shot out, attaching to the handle. "Woah." He relaxed, and the web fell away from his wrist. He reached toward the ceiling, and the web grabbed hold. He jumped off the bed and swung back and forth by the web. Peter grinned—this was actually kind of fun. He reached towards another spot on the ceiling and grabbed hold of that web, letting go of the other—he swung around the room that way, going faster and faster. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't let his dads come in now. They were still arguing down the stairs.

He felt like Iron Man, flying through the sky—even if it was just around his bedroom. Or like Tarzan, swinging through the vines in the jungle. Or—maybe like George of the jungle, Peter reflected as he realized he was coming up on a wall too fast too late—he hit the wall hard, the thump resounding through the house and shaking the shelves.

"Peter?" called out his dad.

"I'm fine!" Peter yelled back. That was when he realized that he wasn't on his back on the ground. _He was stuck to the wall_. Hardly daring to breathe, Peter lifted one hand off the wall and reached even higher. He pulled himself up, higher and higher—until he was hanging by his hands from the ceiling. He jumped down, onto his bed. Another thump.

"Peter, what are you doing up there?" his dad shouted up the stairs.

"Nothing!" Peter called back. He took his socks off. Maybe, just maybe… He climbed up the wall with his hands, and then put his foot to the wall—it stuck, too. With a sudden childish glee, Peter climbed all the way up to the ceiling and hung upside down like a spider.

But then the panic sunk in.

_Oh my God, am I turning into a spider?_ Peter wondered. _Am I going to wake up tomorrow with fangs_? This had to be from that spider that bit him, back at Oscorp. Was he going to die from radiation poisoning? From spider-bite-related cancer?

"Shit," Peter muttered. Someone knocked on the door.

"Peter, open up," said his dad.

"Uh, I'm not decent," Peter called back, quickly climbing down the walls. He looked at his room—it was covered in giant webs.

"I don't care, open the door," his dad said. Peter went to the door and opened it just a crack, peeking his head out. Dad raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing in there?"

"Stuff," Peter said.

"Stuff?" his dad repeated.

"Yeah, just...stuff," Peter said.

"Do we…" his dad looked visibly uncomfortable, "…do we need to have…a _talk_?" It took Peter a second, but then it dawned on Peter what he meant, and his eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, God, _no_—I'm not—that's not—oh _gross_, Dad!" Peter said, completely incapable of forming a coherent thought.

"Well, I don't know what to think—we hear all these weird sounds from up here, and you're not decent and you won't open the door—"

"If you have ever loved me, please _stop talking now_," Peter begged. Tony put his hands up.

"Fine, fine," he said. "I'm just looking out for you, Peter. Things have been…weird the past couple of days."

"Yeah," Peter said. _You're telling me_, he added privately.

"Well…dinner will be ready soon—come downstairs in a bit," Dad said.

"How did you manage to get any dinner cooked while arguing like that?" Peter asked, almost impressed. His dad smiled grimly.

"We're used to it, Pete. I'm giving you fifteen minutes," his dad said. "And…try not to make too much of a mess in there…"

"GO AWAY," Peter groaned, shutting the door. He could hear his dad snicker outside the door. Sometimes, Peter thought, it was a bit difficult having a 'cool' dad. Pops wouldn't ever try to make him blush, but for Dad it was a bit of a sport, which, now that Peter was eighteen, could get a bit scarring.

Peter cleaned up the webbing from around the room, stuffing it all in his bathroom trashcan—he'd have to take it out in the middle of the night, or something. When he was done he ambled down the stairs, only to find Pops and Dad glaring stiffly at each other from opposite sides of the table.

"Um," Peter said, "dads? Is dinner ready?"

"What?" Pops asked. "Oh, yeah." He put on oven gloves and took a casserole dish out of the oven—how he'd managed that along with cleaning and arguing, Peter would never know. "Take a seat, Peter."

Peter sat down, and his dads followed suit. Dad dished out casserole silently.

"So what happened today, Peter?" he asked finally.

"Flash was picking on Mark. Again. He was going to beat him up, so I distracted him so Mark could get away. I just dodged his punches at first, but when I turned my back to leave he charged at me and I punched him in the nose. That's it," Peter said. "And I didn't even _really_ punch him—he mostly just…ran into my fist…"

"Well, Peter, that—" his dad started, with a funny look on his face, but after a moment, he couldn't contain it—he just started laughing. "He ran into your fist?"

"Mostly," Peter said. Even Pops had a small smile on his face.

"Is this the same kid that gave you the black eye?" Pops asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied.

"So you wanted revenge, huh?" Pops asked.

"No," Peter said insistently. "It just sort of…happened."

"Well, don't go around punching people, Peter," his dad said. "And…I think that covers it."

"Look Peter, I get that this kid is a bully," Pops said. "I don't like bullies. And I'm not going to tell you to run away, because they'll just keep coming. But next time—try not to break something, yeah?"

"Yeah, ok," Peter agreed. He dug into his casserole, and the family sat in silence for a while. Peter would have liked to think that it was comfortable silence, as often befell their little family—but he knew that wasn't the case. He could tell by the set of his dad's jaw, by Pops' grip on his glass of milk that the silence was anything _but_ comfortable. Peter finished up and put his plate in the dishwasher. His dads bid him goodnight, and as soon as the door to his room shut, he could hear their raised voices start up again.

Peter opened up his laptop and sat on his bed. He plugged in his headphones and turned his music up probably loud enough to cause permanent ear damage. He had some research to do. He pulled up Oscorp's corporate website. Scratch research—he had some _hacking _to do.

After a few hours of sifting through Oscorp files, Peter came up with nothing. If they were _intentionally_ splicing together human and spider DNA, Peter couldn't find a whit of evidence. Peter sighed and ripped the earbuds out.

"—Oh, because you think you know _everything_, Captain Know-it-all—"

Peter closed his laptop and put it on the floor beside his bed. He pulled a pillow over his head, a sinking feeling settling in his heart.

This was not normal.

None of it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

All was quiet in the Stark-Rogers-Parker household. It was a rare occasion, but perhaps what was even more rare was that Peter was up at eight in the morning on a Saturday. Typically, Peter slept in, but eight o'clock on a Saturday was the perfect time. Dad would get home at a normal hour on Friday, and that night he'd catch up on all the sleep he'd lost through the week. Pops was usually up, but he tended to stay in bed with Dad, reading the paper or watching old movies on television that Dad had already seen a million times and had no intention of revisiting. Since Peter wasn't ever up, Pops didn't bother to make breakfast.

Peter slipped out of bed and gently padded over to the closet, carefully avoiding every squeaky floorboard. He changed into real clothes—well, jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, anyway—and put on his sneakers. He slipped out his door carefully and tip-toed downstairs—but the front door creaked open.

"Peter?" Pops asked. "What are you doing up?" Pops was dressed simply in a t-shirt and khakis. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his hair was wet, clearly freshly showered. He'd already hit the gym and come back.

"Do you do this every Saturday?" Peter blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Has my childhood been a lie? Because I always thought you just stayed in bed with Dad, but do you—do you actually go out and do things and just come back?"

"…No…" Steve said. "…Do _you_?"

"No," Peter replied.

"So what are you doing? Are you going somewhere?" Steve asked.

"I…uh…well yeah…see, I've got this project that I have to work on for chemistry, and well, my lab partner, he uh, he's in sports so the only time he had free this week was nine o'clock on Saturday morning. Sucks right?" Peter said, his adrenaline going like crazy as his Pops looked at him hard. He always felt like Pops could see right through him.

"…What sport?" Pops asked.

"Oh, you know, he's a jock. He does pretty much everything," Peter said quickly. "Right now it's uh, football." It was football season still, right? "And um wrestling or something. I'm not really sure, I didn't ask too many questions."

"All right," Pops said slowly. "But next time, Pete, let your Dad or I know before you head out, ok?"

"I'll be back before noon," Peter assured him, but Pops shook his head.

"If I got up at nine-thirty and you weren't in bed, I'd have all of S.H.I.E.L.D. out looking for you before noon, Peter," Pops said.

"I seriously hope you'd try to catch me on my cell first," Peter said, a bit mortified. He could imagine uncle Bruce as The Other Guy, ripping through the city in search of him while he was just at the library or something equally stupid. Pops just chuckled.

"Probably not. But Tony would," Pops said. "I'll see you in time for lunch, Peter."

"Yeah," Peter said, slipping past him and opening the door. "Bye Pops!"

"Bye," Pops said, still following him with his eyes suspiciously. Peter shut the door behind him, a sense of relief washing over him. Pops knew he was up to something, but he didn't seem very bothered by it. Probably, Peter thought, he had enough to worry about already. He felt a bit bad about taking advantage of that fact, but hey, he needed to get out of the house.

Peter jogged down the street and got as far away from the house as possible. He couldn't risk anyone recognizing him. He flipped up his hood and ducked down a dingy alleyway. The street was still wet with last night's rain—some unfortunate soul had forgotten to bring in their clothesline, which now dripped rainwater onto the street. A few drops caught Peter on his cheek. He looked up the great red brick of the building. It was…tall. It was, more specifically, a very long way to fall from the top. Heart pounding again, Peter took off his shoes and his socks gingerly, avoiding the broken glass of a beer bottle near the dumpster. The pavement was wet and cold, and it gave him goose bumps all up and down his legs. Peter took a deep breath and touched the rough brick. He could feel his hand attach itself to the wall as he pressed a bit harder. He pulled himself up with his other hand and put his feet on the wall. Slowly, one movement at a time, Peter pulled himself up.

Half-way up the building, Peter looked down. It was the oddest feeling—he wasn't grasping anything, wasn't held up by any equipment, he was just stuck there. It was a good thing, Peter reflected as he climbed higher, that while he'd never been particularly fond of spiders, he'd never been afraid of heights. He climbed all the way up to the roof, pulling himself onto the flat surface of the building.

It certainly wasn't the highest place in New York, but Peter gazed across all the smaller houses with amazement. He could see his cozy little home far off in the distance, a quiet little place where his dads spent a sleepy Saturday morning, with no idea what their son was capable of. Peter's heart leapt with excitement—he felt like he was on top of the world. He looked across to the next apartment building—just what else had the spider altered? Peter backed up—he'd have to get a running start. He put on a burst of speed and leapt across the buildings. Peter flew through the air, marveling at the feeling. He _was_ the Iron Avenger in that moment—and then he landed on the other building. His knees collapsed from under him and he fell hard to the ground, momentum rolling him over and over again, and then the roof wasn't beneath him anymore. His heart flew into his throat as time slowed down. He could see the sky above him, and a window slowly coming into view on his side. He was falling—he was _going to die_.

But instinct kicked in. Peter reached out for the ledge of the next building as he slipped away—and a web shot out. He grabbed hold and momentum swung him around. For a few moments, Peter let himself dangle from the web, swinging a bit wildly from side to side, before he slowly let out the web and lowered himself to the ground. He let go of the web and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

Shit, all those acrobatics were scarier than he'd thought they'd be.

But also about a _thousand times_ more thrilling than any dream he'd ever had. And hey, practice made perfect, right? With a grin, Peter looked towards the center of the city, with all its skyscrapers and towers—including Stark Tower. Yeah, that looked like as good a place to practice as any—but he couldn't exactly do it with a hoodie and bare feet. Peter quickly walked back to his starting place and shoved his shoes back on. Before he really got to practice, he'd have to make one stop first.

On a Saturday morning at barely ten o'clock, Stark Tower was pretty much empty. Peter had only been in the usual entrance once before, when he'd had his 'allergic reaction'. But shortly after that, Dad had given him an all-access pass that he could use to get around in case any emergency like that ever arose again.

Peter slipped in the lobby, and he noticed the receptionist was the same one as the last time. The man's eyes widened and he quickly looked away—Peter guessed Pepper had attacked him with several non-disclosure forms shortly after the incident. Well, his reluctance to notice Peter's presence would only work in his favor. He swiped the card at the elevator. The door pinged and he walked inside. There wasn't a button for Tony's private floors (his lab and his home away from home), only one for his office, but Tony had instructed him in what to do. He pressed several different buttons in a specific order. The elevator pinged again.

"Welcome, young Master Stark," JARVIS' voice rang out through the elevator. Peter smiled.

"Hey JARVIS," Peter said. He was well acquainted with his dad's electronic home help. His dad had tried to get JARVIS installed in their home in Brooklyn on many different occasions, but Pops found JARVIS disconcerting and always put his foot down.

"You haven't been in the lab in several weeks, young Master Stark," JARVIS said. Peter had always found JARVIS' refusal to refer to him as 'Master Parker' or 'Master Stark-Rogers' entertaining. Peter suspected it in part had something to do with Steve's dislike of JARVIS and JARVIS' subsequent resentment of Steve. He was a very complicated computer program.

"Yeah, just need some stuff for a chemistry project," Peter lied. "Hey JARVIS—override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega." The elevator pinged again.

"Override code accepted," JARVIS spoke. "What are you up to, young Master Stark?"

"I'm sorry, JARVIS, I just can't have you telling Dad what I'm doing," Peter explained. The override code should keep their correspondence secret—at least, it would until Dad found out he'd developed an override code at all. With another ping, the elevator doors opened, and Peter stepped into his dad's private lab.

Four Ironman suits lined the far wall. Tables heaped with equipment seemed to be in almost random placement around the room. Peter could hear a whirring—he looked around only to find Dummy 'looking' in his general direction.

"Hey Dummy, I'm going to need your hand in a minute," Peter told him. The robot whirred as if in agreement. Peter picked his way through the lab carefully, making his way to a set of steel drawers near the suits. He opened up the third drawer down and pulled out one of his dad's black underarmors. It wasn't just long underwear, as one might think, but actually it had tech of its own. Peter lifted the light material and ran his hands over it—it was light and supple, but Peter knew that it could slow a bullet, resist flames, and insulate from extreme cold. It was Kevlar microfiber. It was also high tech fabric, and it had communications systems built right in—just in case Dad got thrown from the suit. It could monitor vitals and independently call for aid in the event that the wearer wasn't able to. When Dad had made the first prototype, Pops had told him that he ought to make commercial versions for old people. Dad told Pops that he'd be first on that list.

Peter put the outfit down. He didn't want to take one of his dad's suits. For one thing, it would be blatantly obvious where he had gotten it from, and for another, his dad would be able to track it.

"JARVIS, is there any extra material left over from the underarmor?" Peter asked.

"Yes, Master Peter," JARVIS said. The top steel drawer opened. "All available scraps are located in the top drawer." Peter straightened up and looked through the drawer. There were only strips of black left, but there were whole swatches of blue and what looked to be an entire bolt of red.

"Well I guess that decides my color scheme," Peter said to himself as he picked out the fabric he needed, his mind spinning with design possibilities. He sat down at a work table and grabbed a tablet, drawing on the surface with a stylus.

"And what exactly is this for, young Master Stark?" JARVIS asked as Peter completed the sketch. Peter put the finishing touch on the sketch—a spider design, right in the center.

"My protection," Peter answered. "Now, where's the sewing machine…"

Tony Stark was luckily no hand at sewing, and so Peter was able to put his design and specifications into one of his father's inventions. After a couple of hours it was completed. Peter gingerly pulled the suit out, amazed at his creation. He'd put in a communications system that could sync up with the Avengers, but Peter was _pretty sure_ his dad wouldn't be able to trace it. Peter quickly stripped out of his clothes and tried it out. The fabric clung to his skin. Peter put on his gloves and stuck his hand to the wall—it still stuck, just as Peter had suspected. The material was permeable enough to allow the small fibers that let Peter to stick to things come out. He slipped off the glove and put his clothes back on—it was the only way he'd be able to get it back home without his dads noticing. Just as he'd flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt, he felt a buzz in his pocket. Peter pulled out his stark phone.

_Six Missed Calls_

_12:30 DAD_

_12:45 POPS_

_1:00 POPS_

_1:15 DAD_

_1:30 POPS_

_1:45 POPS_

_1 New Text_

DAD

Pops said u would b home b4 noon where r u

Peter looked at the time—it was almost two o'clock. Woops. The phone buzzed again.

DAD

He's threatening 2 call SHIELD and I'm 100% behind him

Shit. Another buzz.

POPS

PETER WHERE ARE YOU GET HOME RIGHT NOW YOU SHOULD BE GROUNDED AFTER YESTERDAY AND I LET YOU OUT OF THE HOUSE AND EVERYTHING AND NOW WE DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE GET YOUR ASS BACK HOME NOW

Super shit. That was what he got for putting his phone on silent. Peter quickly punched in a reply and sent it to his dads:

On my way home, phone on silent, lost track of time, sorry. Be home in 20.

Almost immediately his phone buzzed again.

POPS

YOU ARE SO GROUNDED

Peter sighed and jammed his phone back in his pocket. Now they'd be suspicious, watching his every move. It was the last thing that he needed right now.

"JARVIS, delete all evidence of the scraps I used from the inventory," Peter called out.

"Scraps deleted. Will that be all, young Master Stark?" JARVIS asked as Peter got into the elevator.

"Yeah, unless you can figure out a way to make my dads forget that I was supposed to be home two hours ago," Peter said, pressing the button for the lobby.

"That is not within my programming, young Master Stark," JARVIS answered.

"Yeah," Peter said, "I figured. Override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega deactivate."

"Override deactivated. Systems functions normal," JARVIS replied. Peter rode the elevator all the way down to the lobby of Stark tower, and once he hit the sidewalk outside he broke into a run—here was to hoping he could make it all the way to back to Brooklyn in just twenty minutes. But hey, if he was running late, he could always take a "shortcut". Peter glanced up at the great glass buildings, gleaming in the sunlight. _Next time_.

Peter wished as soon as he had stepped through the door of his house that he hadn't. He could see Pops and his dad in the kitchen. Dad was sitting down his head in his hands. Pop looked up when the door closed and his face darkened with anger.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"I told you, I had a—"

"Chemistry project to work on, yes, I know," Pops said. "What I _don't_ know is why it took you six hours."

"It's a really delicate project, Pops," Peter said, joining them in the kitchen, "and—and it's like half of our grade. We were working really hard on it and I had my phone on silent and I didn't realize what time it was until we were finished. I'm sorry." Pops gave him a long look. Peter swallowed, an involuntary nervous reaction to that particular look. But then Pops sighed, the anger on his face dissolving. Peter hardly dared to believe that he'd get off so easily.

"Just…text next time Peter. And sit down, your dad and I have something we need to tell you," Pops said. Suddenly Peter's stomach twisted in a knot. Pops looked so serious, and Dad looked wiped out.

"What's going on?" Peter asked. "Is…is someone hurt?" Peter thought of all his honorary aunts and uncles, and his stomach twisted painfully again.

"No, Peter, no one's hurt," Dad said tiredly. "Sit down." Reluctantly, Peter pulled up a chair and sat down. "Rebecca called me on Tuesday morning." Peter blinked. Rebecca? Did they even _know_ a Rebecca? Tony saw the confusion on Peter's face and quickly amended, "Rebecca Masters. Your birth mother, Peter."

Oh. _Oh_.

"Well…what did she want?" Peter asked.

"To talk to you," Dad replied. "She wants to meet you, Peter. But you don't have to do anything you don't want to—you can just tell her that you don't want to see her."

"She wants to meet me?" Peter asked. Peter couldn't place the emotion running through him. He'd never thought much about his birth mother. He had two parents who loved him, and a ton more honorary aunts and uncles. Sure, he'd occasionally wondered about her—were the bits of him that he couldn't recognize in Dad part of her?—but he'd never thought about seeing her before.

"She does but you don't have to meet her if you don't want to Peter," Dad said firmly. "We don't want you to do anything that you're not comfortable wi—"

"I want to," Peter interrupted, surprising everyone—including himself.

"Well, that's…Well…Uh," Dad said, unable to say anything more.

"That's your decision to make and we support you," Pops supplied helpfully.

"Yeah. That. Sure," Dad said, but he didn't look happy about it. Well, neither did Pops, thought Peter. But they hadn't looked happy in quite a while. Pops handed Peter the house phone and rattled off a number.

"She wants you to call today, if you want to," Pops told him gently. Peter stared at the phone.

"Ok," he said. He looked at Pops, and then at Dad. "Is…is everything ok?" Dad and Pops exchanged a glance.

"Everything's fine, Peter," Pops said, but Dad said nothing. Peter felt his stomach twist a little. Dad would never lie to him. But Pops…well, Pops was far more likely to put rose-colored glasses on Peter. Peter looked at the phone in his hand, and then got up from the table.

"Where are you going?" asked Dad.

"I'm going to go make a phone call," Peter said. He walked upstairs, feeling his dads eyes on him the whole time. He went into his room, shutting the door behind him. He sat on his bed, playing with the phone in his hands.

Peter had only once asked about his mother. Dad had told him that she was a woman with whom he'd had a brief affair, and that was the end of it. Peter didn't know the color of her hair, didn't know her personality, didn't know anything about her—except what he'd managed to glean from conversations his honorary extended family had had in his presence.

Peter knew that his parents had gotten together two years after his Pops' time on the ice—and he also knew that he, Peter, had been born _four_ years after Pops' time on the ice. That had said enough to Peter that he decided not to ask about the circumstances of his birth. But it didn't mean that he hadn't been _curious_, both about what had happened and about his mother. He didn't want to ask his dads—but could he ask her? What would it be like to meet her, the woman who gave him half of his DNA? Would they be anything alike? Would she know he was her child instantly when she heard his voice or when she saw him?

Well, probably not, Peter thought. That didn't make much sense. It was a sentimental thought, but absolutely ridiculous. He took a deep breath and dialed the number. The phone rang once. Twice.

"Hello?" a melodic, pleasant voice answered. Peter opened his mouth but nothing came out. "…hello?"

"Um, is—is this Rebecca Masters?" Peter eventually croaked. His mouth was dry and something was stuck in his throat.

"Yes, this is she—who is this, please?" Rebecca, _his_ _mother_, replied.

"Um—this—this is Peter," Peter said. There was a pause on the other line.

"…Peter? Peter, _my son_ Peter?"

"Yeah I…yeah," Peter said.

"I didn't think you'd call—Oh, Peter I'm so glad that you decided to call," Rebecca gushed. And then there was silence. Peter didn't know what to say. "…so, I'd like to meet you in person. Would you like that, Peter?"

"I—I guess so," Peter said uncertainly. It was odd, but he suddenly remembered that this was a woman that he'd never met before. A stranger. Someone who had, in fact, abandoned him as a baby—though to be fair, she had known he'd have a good family. A whole range of emotions washed over Peter and he felt overwhelmed. Had he made a decision too quickly?

"Well, if you're sure, I'd love to meet you next weekend. Would next Saturday work for you? We could go get coffee—do you drink coffee?—or maybe dinner or something. Whatever sounds like fun to you," Rebecca said. Peter could detect a hint of nervousness in her voice, and he felt a bit relieved—it was good to know that he wasn't the only one who found the situation awkward.

"I like coffee," Peter said with a little smile, though he knew she couldn't see it. He could hear the smile in her reply, though.

"Great!" she said. "Well—did you want to talk or—or we'll talk on Saturday yes? So, coffee at…does ten in the morning work for you?"

"Yeah that…that would be good," Peter said. "It's…nice to hear from you."

"Peter, it's _wonderful_ to hear from you. Thank you for calling," Rebecca said.

"Um, no problem. Ok so…bye then," Peter said.

"I'll see you on Saturday. Goodbye, Peter," she said, and Peter hung up the phone. He put it down and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The house was quiet, but it wasn't a good kind of quiet. It was the kind of quiet that Peter knew meant his parents were speaking quietly to each other, probably about him. Or about Rebecca. Or about whatever happened eighteen years ago. Peter's phone buzzed. A little startled, he pulled it out of his pocket.

_1 new text._

BRUCE

Hey kiddo just checking in. Heard you got in a fight at school yesterday, wanted to make sure you're ok.

Peter sighed and texted back his uncle.

I'm fine. You should see the other guy.

Almost instantly his phone pinged again.

BRUCE

I didn't mean physically.

Peter flopped over on his belly, mulling over how he should reply. He didn't want uncle Bruce to worry, but then, Bruce had always been his confidante, and he'd never minded.

Lots of stuff going on right now. Weird/rough week.

BRUCE

Want to talk? You could come over for dinner. We'll get Chinese.

Peter smiled. He and Bruce always had Chinese.

Yeah sounds good. Will come if dads will let me out of the house.

BRUCE

Uh-oh. Grounded from the fight?

Among other things.

Oh, Peter. Just tell your Dad and give your Pops the slip.

Pops might kill me.

The Other Guy won't let him, trust me.

Be there at seven.

Peter put his phone back in his pocket. It was almost four, so he had about two and a half hours to kill before he needed to leave for Bruce's apartment. He opened up his computer and before he knew it, the time was gone. That was the magic of the internet. He closed it up and went down the stairs. His dad was sitting on the couch, watching television. That was a bit odd in and of itself—his dad was rarely sitting and doing nothing. But even weirder was that he was watching crappy reality television—it was super nanny or wife swap or something, Peter couldn't tell.

"Where's Pops?" Peter asked.

"Out," Dad said shortly.

"Out where?" Peter asked, puzzled. "The grocery store?"

"The gym, I think."

"But he went this morning."

"Doesn't seem to bother him."

"Ok, well…I'm headed to Uncle Bruce's place for dinner, is that cool with you?"

"Sure, Peter. Be back before eleven and call before you leave," dad said, but he obviously wasn't paying much attention to him. Peter didn't think his mind was occupied by the television, either.

"Yeah…ok dad. Try to remember to eat," Peter said. His dad was still staring at the screen blankly when he left.

Uncle Bruce lived nearby in Queens, so it only took Peter about a half an hour to get to his apartment. Bruce buzzed him up and sat him down on the couch. He'd already laid out all the Chinese food in cartons on the coffee table, and a rerun of Doctor Who was on television. They chatted easily about Bruce's latest research, debated whether or not the fifteenth Doctor was better than the tenth Doctor and whether or not either of them were better than the fourth Doctor, and happily ate Chinese food. But eventually Bruce set down his Chinese.

"All right Peter, what's bothering you?" he asked. Peter sighed.

"It's…I don't know, it's a lot of stuff."

"You could make a list," Bruce suggested.

"I won a contest on Tuesday," Peter said with a rather humorless laugh.

"What kind of contest?"

"Oscorp's _Young Scientist_ competition. Thing is, I never entered it. My science teacher entered my science fair project from last year," Peter said, picking at his fried rice.

"But Peter, that's great," Bruce said encouragingly.

"Tell that to Dad," Peter replied with a snort.

"Don't tell me he took his grudge against Oscorp out on you," Bruce said, frowning.

"Sort of. I just _mentioned_ the competition and he blew up. He went on a rant about how I wasn't allowed to even think about entering," Peter sighed. "And then on Wednesday I—" Peter stopped for a moment. He wasn't used to lying to Uncle Bruce. Things he wouldn't tell Pops or Dad he could tell Uncle Bruce. Bruce looked at him expectantly, but he just couldn't tell him. "—I went for a walk and had an allergic reaction to…to a bug bite or something. And on Friday Flash rammed his face into my fist and _yes_ that is an accurate portrayal of what happened. And…and Dad and Pops have been fighting. I mean, _really_ fighting. All the time. And then today they told me that my birth mom wanted to meet up with me so I called her today and everything's just so…_weird_. And I think Gwen Stacy asked me out on Friday but I'm not really sure." Bruce just looked at him. Then he picked his carton and chopsticks back up.

"Well your dad dropped a building on me on Tuesday, so I guess we're both having a rough week," he said. Peter grinned, and Bruce smiled back.

"A building? Really? How did _that_ happen?"

"Well, we got word that this green lunatic on a glider was holding a bunch of people hostage…" Bruce took off from there, detailing his dad and his pops' fight that day. Peter figured that explained why they were at each other's necks in the first place—but only a little bit. They rarely took their work home—they rarely fought about stuff that happened with the Avengers in front of Peter, and to his knowledge they didn't let it affect their personal relationship. But something was different this time.

Nevertheless, Uncle Bruce seemed to know that the story was exactly what Peter needed to hear, and that he'd just needed to get everything off of his chest. But a weight still sunk there—the weight of his new abilities. Should he tell his dads? Part of him wanted to, but the other part….well, they had their secrets, right? So why couldn't he have his?

"And this Gwen—if she asked you out, what did you say?" Bruce asked.

"That I figured I was grounded," Peter said. "But she gave me her number and told me to give her a call."

"Then why haven't you called her?" Bruce asked, sounding scandalized. "What are you doing with your dorky uncle on a Saturday night when you could be out with a pretty girl?" Peter shrugged, feeling uncomfortable.

"It's just…not a good time right now," Peter said. He thought about that morning, about swinging through the air on a web. And then he thought about his parents shouting at each other while he tried to drown them out with his music.

"No time like the present, Peter," Bruce said. "Go home, get some sleep, and give her a call in the morning."

"Yeah, sure," Peter agreed, but he wasn't so sure he'd actually do it. "Thanks for dinner, Uncle Bruce."

"You should stop by more often, Peter," Bruce said, watching him carefully. His dads hadn't noticed that there was something he was hiding, but Bruce sure had.

"I'll try," Peter replied. Bruce walked him to the door, and then Peter walked along to get to the subway. New York was alive at night. Peter thought that it was even more alive than it was during the day. He got to the station, but a sign was posted outside. _Severe Delays_. Peter groaned. It would probably take him an hour or more to get home if the subway was badly delayed. It was absolutely ridiculous, he just needed to get to _Brooklyn_ for crying out—

A thought struck Peter. He looked at his hands, and then up at the buildings around him. Severe delays, huh? He ducked down an alley. He checked to make sure no one was looking, and then he took off his clothes behind a dumpster, leaving only the red and blue suit. He pulled on his gloves and his mask, and then he stashed his clothes beneath the dumpster. He could come back for them later. He crawled up the wall of the building and jumped onto the roof. He looked out at the city—it was now or never wasn't it?

Peter took a leap of faith—and an actual leap. He jumped off the building, his hands extended outwards. His body instinctively knew what to do. A web shot out, hooking on the nearest building and swinging him towards Brooklyn. He extended his left arm, and a new web shot out, swinging him forward. He soared through the air, high above the people. He saw a couple of people point and stare, but he wasn't concerned, not when his suit covered every inch of his body. He was as unidentifiable as Iron Man—well, as unidentifiable as Iron Man was before his dad decided to just throw off the mask and admit it. At any rate, Peter sure _felt_ like Iron Man. He figured that swinging through the city was just as good as flying. He experimented, trying a few flips and other daring moves. His body easily adapted to whatever he did—gone was the boy who tripped over soccer balls and his own two feet. He'd been replaced by something new, something that Peter didn't quite understand. But he reveled in the change.

That was, he reveled in it until the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and a cold chill ran through his body. Something was wrong. Something was _very_ wrong. Peter heard a scream, and without thinking, he made his way towards the sound. He could see smoke in the distance, and as he got closer he realized a small apartment building was on fire. Most of the people had gathered outside, but one woman wouldn't stop screaming.

"My baby!" she screeched. "My baby's inside! Someone get my baby!" She was reaching out towards the building, but two firefighters held her back.

"It's too dangerous!" one of them shouted. "The building might collapse, we can't risk it. I'm sorry." Peter landed on the ground next to the woman and the startled firefighters. "Who in the hell are you?"

"I'm—uh, I'm Spiderman," Peter said, saying the first thing that popped into his head. "What floor is the baby on?"

"The fifth!" the woman shrieked. "Fifth! Apartment 5B! Please, please save her!"

"I'm on it," said Peter, and before any of the firemen could object, he was already shooting off webs and swinging into a window on the fifth floor.

Despite the fact that the suit offered protection from fire, it didn't help with the heat, which was almost unbearable. And that was to say nothing of the smoke. He rushed through the hall, jumping over places where the floor had collapsed. He found apartment 5B and kicked down the door. A baby wailed, and Peter found her in her bassinet. He quickly picked her up and ran out. A burning beam nearly fell on them both, but Peter swung out of the way with his webs. He jumped out the window, slowing his fall with a web, and landed next to the mother, who shrieked and grabbed her baby from his arms.

"Oh thank you," she sobbed, holding the crying infant close. "Bless you, Spiderman."

"It's no problem, ma'am," Peter said. The weight on his chest had gone, replaced with happiness at seeing mother and daughter reunited. Behind him, the building began to crumble like a sandcastle.

"Are you with S.H.I.E.L.D?" asked one of the firemen.

"Uh," Peter said, "not exactly." Without another word, Peter leapt up and propelled himself with his webs all the way back to Brooklyn, high from adrenaline and endorphins both. He ran across rooftops and climbed in through his bedroom window, quickly changing out of his costume and into his pajamas. He walked downstairs where he could still hear the television going.

His Dad still sat on the sofa, a glass of wine in his hand that had been nearly drained. Pops was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey Dad," Peter said. His dad started.

"Peter—when did you come in?" he asked.

"Just a couple of minutes ago. I said hi but you didn't seem to notice," Peter lied. His dad blinked.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Where's Pops?" he asked. His dad's eyes darkened.

"Gym, I expect," he said.

"It's eleven o'clock," Peter said. "He's been there four hours."

"Five. He left an hour before you did," his dad corrected. "I don't think he'll be home…until later…so why don't you just head on up to bed?"

"Ok," Peter said slowly, the knot in his stomach slowly returning as the high he'd gotten from saving that little girl began to ebb. He wanted to tell his dad all about it, wanted to spill his guts then and there, but it wasn't a good time. Pops wasn't home. Dad was upset. Everything just felt wrong.

Peter went to bed, feeling just as unsettled as he had the whole rest of the week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The sound of soldering woke Peter up. He looked over at his alarm clock—5:00AM. Peter groaned and threw off his blankets. He opened the door to his room and went downstairs towards the sound. He ended up in the garage. It was a small, one car garage. His dads kept one family car there that they rarely used now that Peter was older, and their two motorcycles. His dad was crammed in a corner, working on some small electronic device, probably some modification to his suit.

"Dad?" Peter asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His dad turned off the iron and took off his goggles.

"Oh, shit, Pete I'm sorry, I woke you up didn't I?" Dad said. Peter just waved his hand.

"It doesn't matter—Dad, what are you doing up? And where's Pops?" Peter asked. Although, he wasn't actually asking _where_ Pops was, he was more asking _why hasn't Pops forced you to go to sleep yet_?

"Just working on some repairs, Pete. Go back to bed—I'll take this into the workshop," Dad said.

"Did you sleep at all?" Peter asked.

"Recently? Yes. Tonight? No," Dad replied, gathering up his tools and equipment.

"Then call Happy and get _him_ to drive you," Peter insisted. He wasn't going to bother forcing his dad to sleep. Pops was the only one who could manage that. "Anyway, where's Pops?"

"Asleep, I expect," Dad answered easily.

"A falling feather that changed the currents in the air could wake him up—how'd you get past him?" Peter asked, almost impressed. Dad paused, and then tossed a wrench back on the table. He sighed heavily and then looked Peter in the eyes.

"I didn't," he said.

"I don't understand. You said he's asleep—"

"I didn't say where," Dad said. It took Peter a moment, but then finally it dawned on him.

"He _left_?" Peter asked. "Where'd he _go_?" Peter had a sinking feeling that it wasn't on a super secret mission for the Avengers.

"A hotel, I think," Dad said, stuffing the circuits and bits of metal he'd been working with into a duffel bag.

"But…why?"

"To clear his head. For us to have some 'cool off time'," Dad said. Peter didn't like the sound of that at all.

"Well…when's he coming back?" Peter asked.

"A few days, he said," Dad said, zipping up the duffel. He sounded unconcerned, but Peter could read the strain on his face.

"He…he left for a few days and he didn't say goodbye?" Peter asked. Dad sighed again.

"Go back to sleep, Peter. I'll be home later," he said. He got out his phone and instructed JARVIS to call Happy and tell him that he had to drive him to the lab.

"Why didn't he say goodbye?" Peter asked, his brain still not processing this information.

"Because he's coming back soon, Peter. Don't worry about it. We just needed some…space. Go to sleep," Dad said. He put his phone in his pocket and grabbed the duffel. He ruffled Peter's hair as he went back into the house to wait for Happy at the front door. Peter followed after him.

"When will _you_ be home?" Peter asked. Dad looked at him seriously.

"Before lunch time. I promise. We'll go get something to eat together. Shawarma?"

"I hate shawarma."

"Chinese."

"I had Chinese last night."

"Pizza?"

"It's _Sunday_, Pops always cooks—" Peter meant to say 'a roast', but the words didn't come out when he saw the pained expression on his dad's face. Right. Because Pops wouldn't be home tonight. Peter felt a small pang in his chest, both of pain and of panic. "I like pizza. But get the good stuff."

"Your wish is my command," Dad said, but his voice was a little strained, the joking tone a bit forced. "Go to sleep, Peter." Peter said goodbye and then went up to his room, collapsing back on his bed. His head spun. He grabbed his cell phone off his bedside table, toying with it for a bit. Should he text Pops? Should he find out if he was ok, and when _exactly_ he'd be coming home?

But then, Peter considered, Pops probably didn't know. Peter couldn't believe that he hadn't said goodbye or anything. And why was he gone at all? He'd _never_ left before. He'd never _'needed space_'. Peter started a text.

Why didn't you say goodbye?

_Delete._

When are you coming home?

_Delete._

What did Dad do to piss you off?

_Delete._

Maybe it wasn't something Dad had done. After all, hadn't _Peter_ been the one misbehaving lately? Peter grabbed a pillow and hugged it to himself tightly, trying to ease the slowly growing sickness in his stomach. Hadn't _Peter_ been the cause of a lot of their arguments lately? Had _Peter_ driven them apart, and driven Pops away?

No, that was nonsense.

Wasn't it?

He got out his phone, fully intending on sending the next text, but changed his mind. Instead he wrote:

Did you still want to see that movie?

And sent it to Gwen Stacy. He pulled up his covers and rolled over on his bed. His phone pinged.

GWEN

Five in the morning is a little early for a movie.

It's too late if you meant to catch the midnight premiere.

What are you even doing up?

Dad went nuts with the soldering iron.

At five in the morning?

He doesn't sleep. I'm pretty sure he's a vampire. Just holding out the hope that he's not the sparkly kind. Why are YOU up?

Phone wasn't on silent, you woke me up.

Asdk;fjjl I'm so sorry 

It's fine. There's a showing today at 3pm.

The AMC on Riverdale and 206th?

Yes.

I'll be there. Will you?

You'll have to go to find out.

Peter grinned and then put his phone down. He turned over in bed, drawing the covers close. He dreamed of short blonde hair and knee socks, but a shadow of two arguing adults loomed in the background…

Peter woke again not to the sound of soldering, but the sound of his own alarm. Peter sighed—would no one let him sleep? Not even himself? He glanced at the clock—at least it was now a decent hour, ten o'clock instead of five. Peter tossed off the covers for a second time and wandered down the stairs, but as soon as he hit the last step, the hairs on the back of his neck raised up.

_Something_ was very wrong. But what? Peter tried to shake it off, but this wasn't any ordinary feeling. It wouldn't go away. He ignored the foreign emotion and went to the fridge to get some breakfast. He grabbed a box of cereal and took it back up to his room. He sat at his computer, eating and thinking about his plan for the day.

For one thing, he had a date with Gwen at 3. Well, maybe. He _probably_ had a date with Gwen at 3. But before that, he had a little…avenging…avengering?...whatever, _crime-fighting_ to do. He gulped down his cereal and put on his suit, still trying to avoid that nagging feeling that something was off. It was probably just leftover from last night, Peter reasoned. Everything felt wrong with Pops gone.

He pulled street clothes over his costume to keep it from view. He turned on the comm. system.

_Green Goblin attack at the Grand Concourse and East 165__th__ Street in the Bronx, special units to contain the situation, all other units standby, repeat, all other units standby._

Peter's stomach did a somersault. He'd read about the Green Goblin in the _Daily Bugle_, but when he'd asked Pops about it, he'd just ruffled Peter's hair and told him not to worry. Peter had assumed the story had been made up or exaggerated, but here was Maria Hill's voice saying quite plainly that he _did_ exist, and that he was attacking New York.

_Sounds like a job for the Avengers…plus Spider-man_, Peter thought. If ever his dads could use his help, it was now, wasn't it?

The doorbell rang. Peter groaned internally—wasn't the domestic side of life always getting in the way of adventures? It was so boring and _ordinary_ and…Peter opened up the door.

"Delivery for Peter Parker?" said a man in a FedEx uniform.

"I…I haven't ordered anything recently," Peter said, puzzled. He stepped out onto the porch to see the box. It was fairly large—the size of a mini-fridge, maybe. The FedEx man checked the form.

"You ARE Peter Parker, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah," Peter started, still puzzling over the package, "But I didn't order—Suddenly Peter felt two hands on his shoulders. He danced out of the FedEx man's grasp. "Woah—hey—" The FedEx man started towards him, and Peter backed up, coming to the edge of his porch. The man's hands came at him again, trying to pin his arms to his sides, but Peter punched them away. "What's your problem?" He tried to get to the door, but the FedEx man blocked him. Peter jumped up and locked the man's head between his thighs, twisting them both down in a move he'd learned from Aunt Nat but had never been able to execute until his transformation. The man went down hard. Peter's heart hammered. He thought he should feel relief, but still that nagging feeling that had bothered him all morning hit him. He jumped up, making his way to the door, but then he felt another pair of arms around him, and a cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth. Almost instantly the world grew fuzzy. Peter flailed for a moment but his vision went black at the edges and slowly he was pulled back under into unconsciousness.

Peter woke slowly, his head buzzing and the room spinning a little. He shook his head and blinked, trying to clear his vision, and slowly the room came into view. It was a small room, painted grey with cold, grey floors. There was a drain in the center of the room and a single light bulb in the ceiling. Blood stained the floor, but Peter knew better than to panic—judging by the drain, he guessed he was in a former slaughterhouse or something.

Peter was surprised (and delighted) to realize that his hands and feet weren't bound at all. His captors were then either very stupid or very confident in their ability to keep Peter subdued. Peter smirked. Maybe they _could_ keep Peter Parker subdued, but there was no way they could contain _Spiderman_.

There weren't any windows, and the drain in the floor was far too small to fit through. His only chance at escape, then, was through the door. Peter got up from where he sat on the floor and walked over to the door. He jiggled the handle but his captors were not, at least, completely brainless. The door _was_ locked. Peter sighed, staving off panic with annoyance—he'd have to wait for someone to walk through that door before he could escape.

Peter began to formulate a plan in his head, but as he stepped away from the door, it unlocked. Peter started to rush back to the door but it shut as soon as it opened, and the sight of Peter's visitor stopped Peter in his tracks.

There had been no pictures of him in the _Daily Bugle_, but there could be no mistaking it. The armor that covered the figure from head to toe was a metallic, emerald green. The visors that covered his eyes were a horrible yellow, giving the Goblin an almost bug-like appearance.

"Peter Parker," spoke the Goblin in a horrible, gravelly voice. Every hair on Peter's body stood on end at the sound. "Who would have thought that the famous Captain America and Iron Man were settled down together, and with a son?" Peter felt his blood freeze in his veins.

"Seriously? Captain America is gay? Didn't see that one coming," Peter said, faking surprise.

"You're cute, Parker, but there's no point in denying who you are," the Goblin spoke. "I know that you're Stark's boy—an accidental child is hardly surprising coming from him."

"You know I think you've got me mixed up with someone else, dude, 'cause I live in Brooklyn, you know, and Stark's got some big penthouse or something, right? I go to public school, maybe you should check out the private schools in—"

"Don't try my patience, Parker," the Goblin spat. Peter fell silent. It probably wasn't the best idea to rile up a crazy man in armor.

"What do you want?" Peter asked. "Money?"

"Tony Stark's head on a platter," the Goblin replied easily. "And you my dear boy, are going to help me get it."

"So, what, I'm your bait? Seriously? Because you're going to have to go up against at _least_ five seriously pissed off superheroes once you lure my dad in here," Peter said, sincerely unimpressed.

"Oh, no, Peter Parker, I'm not _luring_ anyone. We're going to make a trade. Tony Stark's life for yours. And I'm betting that _Daddy_ will come to your rescue," the Goblin said.

"Well, great. Awesome plan, really," Peter said, deadpan, "but did you honestly just come in here to monologue to me about it because I have better things to do. Like stare at that drain, or count the bloodstains on the floor."

"I came in here as a courtesy, Peter Parker," the Goblin spoke, not sounding at all perturbed by Peter's cavalier attitude. "Because you alone can save your father. He will choose to save you—but will you choose to save him?"

"You want _him_ dead—so what is this, you're just playing with your food now? Those are awful manners—did your mother raise you in a barn?" Peter asked.

"It's your choice, Parker. Who will it be, you or your father?"

"Dad, obviously," Peter scoffed. "Let the young live and the old die."

"I'm having difficulty with your sense of humor."

"I'm not joking," Peter said openly. "I'd rather not be slaughtered here like a pig. If Dad's willing to save my life…_awesome_."

"You…are not what I expected. But I have to say that I _like_ you, Peter Parker. I like the way you think," the Goblin said. He put his hand on the handle.

"Do I get dinner or lunch or something, because I'm starving. Who knew chloroform could give you such hunger pains?" Peter asked breezily. The Goblin just stared at him. Or, Peter assumed that he stared. The yellow glass over his eyes made it hard to tell. "Well, whatever. I'm guessing you'll let me out soon enough. If I change my mind, should I knock?"

"…I guess so." The Goblin pushed down the handle and backed out of the room. Peter let out a breath as he heard the lock click again. It wasn't guaranteed that the door would open again, but if what the papers were saying was true, he would have plenty of trouble subduing the Goblin—and Peter was betting that his goons were still outside.

This was not, despite his dads' best attempts at secrecy, Peter's first incident with kidnapping. In the first, Peter had been six. His dads had taken him on a tour of the helicarrier when disaster struck and they had to suit up. Despite being left in the charge of a member of SHIELD, the agent got distracted in all the chaos and Peter ended up unprotected. Though they had no idea what his importance actually was, members of HYDRA had grabbed him in the fight and held him for three full days as they tried to use him as leverage after losing the battle. During that time, Peter had attempted to escape constantly, but each time he was thwarted by the guards outside his door. He'd managed to get down the hall once by running through one of his captors' legs, but that was as far as he got, and the consequences of escaping had not been pleasant.

The consequences for his captors, however, once his dads and the other Avengers had infiltrated the building, were even less so.

But if Peter had learned one thing from that incident, it was that patience was key. Also that cooperation helped and that his dads would always come and find him.

Still, a little innovation and creative thinking couldn't hurt.

Peter peeled off his clothes, revealing the Spiderman costume beneath. He pulled on the mask and gloves, and then crawled up the wall to the ceiling. He hung off the ceiling by his feet. _Here we go_, Peter thought. He shot out his hand, spraying the room with his web. Five minutes later, the entire room was covered in it, aside from a strategic couple of areas. Peter climbed across the ceiling, delicately picking his way across his webs until he was on the ceiling above the door. He knocked.

"Hey!" Peter shouted. "Hey, I want to talk to that green guy again!" Peter waited, his every muscle on alert with anticipation. Moments later, the door opened. Peter stuck out his hand and grabbed the man stepping inside with his web. This man, just a crony, went pitching forward head first into the web, shouting all the way. Two more guards ran in, and Peter wrangled them with his web, throwing them further into the room. He watched them struggle for a moment, making sure that they were well and truly stuck, before scurrying through the door and onto the wall of the next room.

It was more obvious now that the area was a former slaughterhouse. From the ceiling hung dozens of hooks, and there were instruments and machines the functions of which Peter had no desire to decipher. He crept up to the ceiling, trying to find the shiny green armor of the Goblin, but the lighting was too dim. He shot off a web, deciding the swinging from the ceiling would be faster, but just before he shot off a second web to swing on, a star shaped blade flew through the air and cut clean through Peter's web, catching him by surprise and sending him tumbling onto the ground, rolling arm over arm on his side. When he stopped he groaned in pain—yeah, he'd have bruises in the morning. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and Peter knew before seeing that the Goblin was about to attack. He rolled out of the way as a knife came down, and he did a backflip to get back on his feet and face his attacker.

"You should really keep a better eye on your prisoners," Spiderman advised the Goblin, disguising his voice as best as he could.

"How did you get _in here_?" The Goblin demanded, throwing some small device that looked like it might be a bomb. Peter shot a web to the ceiling and propelled himself up to it just as something exploded. Yes, definitely a bomb. It would be good to avoid those.

"Spiders always find cracks, Green Meanie. Like that one in your head, I can see that wide gaping space from fifty miles away," Spiderman said. Peter had to dodge another bomb, quickly swinging away from his spot. The building was, from the explosions, beginning to burn.

_Get out, get out, get out_, Peter chanted in his mind as the Goblin took to the sky (well, the air) with his glider. Peter swung away, trying to find some opening somewhere. There didn't appear to be any open doors or windows. Peter looked around—he'd have to smash one. Or…

Peter swung through the air, dodging the bombs with the help of his natural instincts (well, his _spider_ instincts—what was he going to call that, anyway? His sixth sense? Or maybe…his _spidey _sense—ha!). He swung towards a window and stuck there, waiting for his moment, his nerves almost fried. As soon as he saw the bomb hurled, Peter leapt out of the way, swinging back around as the bomb exploded on contact, flinging glass everywhere. Peter swung himself right out the window, making a sharp turn around to stick to the wall outside the warehouse. He looked around, trying to find the spot that would give him the most advantage in the coming, fight, but he couldn't decide. The Green Goblin came rushing out the window after him.

"I'm done playing games, bug boy. What have you done with Parker?" the Goblin asked. Long blades extended from his glider.

"I didn't do anything with him—I opened the door and he ran out," Spiderman said as the Goblin rushed him and Spiderman flipped out of the way and onto the roof. The Goblin was coming at him fast, and there weren't any particularly tall buildings nearby. Peter ran, but the Goblin was catching up, his glider much faster than Peter's feet. Peter jumped to roll away, but the Goblin caught him with one hand in mid-air, holding him up by the neck. The Goblin lifted him up as Peter choked and struggled against his vice-like grip.

"Let's try this again. _Where is Peter Parker?_" the Goblin asked.

"Oh, well, you see, that's a different question all together," Peter sputtered. "He's probably on the subway by now—" The Goblin roared and squeezed tighter. Peter could no longer cough. He panicked as he realized he no longer had any air supply.

"I will squash you like a bug, Spiderman," the Goblin said, tightening his grip further, to the point where Peter wasn't sure if he was about to die of asphyxiation or have his neck snapped. His vision started to go white at the edges.

"Put the vigilante _down_, Goblin," said a voice Peter would recognize anywhere. His heart swelled with hope and his brain began to work again through the panic. _Pops!_ Peter stuck out his hand, spraying Goblin in the face with his web. The Goblin yelled and momentarily relaxed his grip on Peter. A moment was all Peter needed—he kicked Goblin in the chest and did a back flip off the glider and onto the roof. The Goblin nearly fell off his glider at the kick, and he flew around erratically as he tried to tear the web off the eyes of his armor. Peter looked up to see Iron Man flying in to the scene. He couldn't see Pops—he guessed that the leader of the Avengers was on the ground, due to lack of flight capability. The Goblin finally managed to rip off the web, balancing himself on the glider and zooming away from Iron Man, who was quickly closing in.

"You're on my _list_, Spiderman!" the Goblin shouted. He zoomed away, with Iron Man chasing after. Moments later, Thor and Captain America landed on the roof. Captain America came rushing towards him.

"Did you see anything? Did you see a teenage boy? His name is Peter, did you save him?" Captain America asked anxiously. Thick, black smoke billowed from the one open window, and Peter could follow Pops' trail of thought—if Spiderman hadn't rescued Peter, it was unlikely at this point that Peter could be recovered alive. Peter opened his mouth to speak, but knew that, even if he disguised his voice, there was no way that Peter could trick his Pops—he would know his voice as surely as Peter knew Pops'. So Peter just nodded. He could see the relief on Pops' face, like the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Oh, thank God—where is he?" Pops asked. Spiderman pointed towards the city. "He…went back home?" Spiderman nodded. "Not much of a talker, are you?" Spiderman shrugged. Captain America placed a hand on his shoulder. "Well, thank you for your help. You just saved my son's life. That's not something that I will ever forget. We need to talk sometime—" Captain America looked Spiderman up and down for a second "—or, I'll talk, you nod, but I have a son to find at the moment." Spiderman nodded once again, and with that Captain America and Uncle Thor exited the roof. _And now_, Peter thought, _time to race them home_.

His muscles ached, and as the adrenaline wore off, raw nerves were left, making even swinging through the city nothing more than an anxiety-inducing activity. He swung home as fast as he could, crawling on the back walls of his neighbors' houses before sneaking in his own back window. He couldn't tell whether or not either of his dads had made it back yet. He hoped that Agent Fury would hold them for debriefing, but he knew that given the circumstances there was no way that he would.

He landed gingerly in his room and stripped out of his costume quickly, throwing it in the back of his closet beneath a pile of dirty clothes, and changed as fast as possible into ordinary street clothes. His ribs hurt from his fall, and he guessed that they were bruised. Woops. As soon as he pulled on a shirt he grabbed his cell phone and went down the stairs. He sent his parents a text:

Guess you noticed I got kidnapped—I'm fine and at home, though, got rescued by Spiderman.

As soon as the text went out, the door opened. It was Pops, mask off and costume on—in broad daylight! But he didn't seem to care. He walked straight to Peter and enveloped him in a hug that was extraordinarily uncomfortable, given the state of Peter's ribs.

"Ow, Pops, ow—"

"You're injured? They hurt you? The _bastards_, I'll—" Pops said, letting him go quickly.

"It's just bruising, I think, but you can feel free to still do…whatever it is you were about to say that I imagine was horrific because they _totally_ deserve it," Peter said. "Where's Dad?"

"Here in seconds, I expect," Pops said. He just looked at Peter. "I thought we might lose you today."

"Well, you _did_ lose me, and _I_ lost me, but you _found _me and that's the important bit," Peter said cheekily, but Pops was obviously not in the mood for jokes. He didn't even crack a smile, and the grin faded from Peter's face.

"Someone knows who you are, Peter," Pops said. "The game changes from here on out." Pops started walking upstairs, and he grabbed Peter's elbow, forcing him to come along.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked, bewildered.

"Packing. Packing your stuff," Pops said. "We can't stay here."

"Oh," Peter said. He wasn't going to try and argue. He wasn't going to try and say that he had two superheroes looking out for him, wasn't going to say that he could take care of himself, because he knew that none of that mattered at the moment. "Are we packing Dad's stuff, too?"

"He will, when he gets here."

"Well this will be an easy packing job then," Peter said as they entered his room, "seeing as you're already packed." Peter looked his Pops in the eye, and his Pops looked away.

"Peter—"

"PETER? STEVE?" Dad shouted from downstairs.

"Up here, Tony," Pops shouted back. Peter heard thumping as Dad ran up the stairs, and seconds later he had another pair of arms cutting off his oxygen supply.

"Dad—" Peter started, but Pops was already peeling Dad off.

"Bruising," Pops explained gently. Dad's face darkened, but Pops just said, "Later, Tony. Now, packing."

"Packing?" Dad asked, and Peter thought he heard a note of panic in his voice.

"Yeah, you too. Go pack things for the night—we're staying at the Tower," Steve said firmly. He dragged a suitcase out of Peter's closet. Peter saw a flash of red from his costume.

"Uh, you know, I can pack on my own, it's really fine—how long should I pack for?" Peter asked.

"Indefinitely," Pops replied, but he didn't leave the room.

"Are you seriously going to watch me pack?"

"Yes."

"_No_, Pops, I'll be fine."

"You were just _kidnapped_. _Again_!"

"_Pops_."

"I'm standing outside the door, then," Pops said firmly. He stood outside. Peter shut the door. He sighed and looked at his phone—six o'clock.

Peter groaned. Pops came bursting through the door.

"What? What is it? Are you ok?"

"What?" Peter asked. "Oh…I'm fine…it's just…I had a date."


	6. Chapter 6

It was midnight when the family of three finally wandered into the penthouse of Stark Tower. Though Peter's Dad hadn't lived there in years, he did have the tendency to spend the night when he was working on something in the lab, and so he had kept the quarters maintained. JARVIS flipped on the lights as they entered.

"Welcome home, Masters Stark and Rogers," JARVIS spoke. The penthouse was a spacious area with a fantastic view. All the furniture and artwork was modern, sleek, and flashy. Peter recognized it for what it was—an area belonging completely to his dad, with none of Pops' influence. But Peter knew that already. He'd stayed overnight in the penthouse on several occasions, usually when he was working late with his Dad in the lab. His room was in the back, and Peter went straight there.

The room, which had functioned as a safe location for his S.H.I.E.L.D. approved babysitters (all weighted down with several heavy duty non-disclosure contracts) to look after him when his parents were away. As such, the room had never really grown up _with_ Peter. It stayed frozen in time, the Captain America duvet still on the under-sized racecar bed, which was itself painted in shiny Iron Man colors. Peter had thought that his parents being superheroes was the coolest thing ever. Well, he still thought that. Old toys were boxed up in the closet, along with clothes now far too small for him.

Pictures of himself with his Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. family peppered the walls as this was the only place he could _display_ those photos. This was the only place Peter had never had to hide who he truly was, who his parents truly were. Outside these walls—even on the next floor down in Stark Tower—he had to be no one for his own safety. Usually he didn't mind, but it was at times like these that he did.

Peter dumped his duffel bag at the foot of his bed and collapsed on top of it, not even bothering to change out of his jeans or even try to curl up to fit properly on the bed—he laid at an awkward angle, his feet and half of his shins sticking out the side, but he was too exhausted to care. He closed his eyes, but the next moment Pops was gently shaking him awake.

"It's morning, Peter," Pops said softly. He smelled like soap—he must have already gone for his run and showered. Super-serum or no, Peter still thought his Pops was weird for being a morning person.

"I didn't do my calculus homework," Peter mumbled into his pillow.

"It doesn't matter, Peter," Pops said. Peter's eyebrows knit together.

"Mr. Responsible doesn't care that I didn't finish my homework?"

"You got kidnapped yesterday, Peter," Pops said, his eyes searching his face. "Do you remember that?"

"Of _course_ I remember that. Big green guy on a glider had some hare-brained never-would-have-worked-anyway plan and then Spider-Man came in and kicked some serious ass," Peter said. "I mean, really, he was _awesome_." Pops smiled a little but still looked at him in concern.

"Well, your Dad and I would like it if you could get up soon. There's breakfast waiting and we need to talk to you," Pops said. Peter felt unease settle into his stomach, and his whole body tensed.

"Talk about what?" he asked. Pops just rubbed Peter's shoulder briefly.

"Stuff. Just come out when you're ready for breakfast," Pops said. He gave Peter a small, reassuring smile before leaving his room and shutting the door behind him. But he'd left Peter with a tight feeling in his chest. _We need to talk_ was never a good phrase. It never meant, 'we need to talk to you about all these good grades you're getting' or 'we need to talk to you about how we're getting you a puppy'. In Peter's experience, 'we need to talk' meant either 'you're in trouble' or 'something awful has happened'—usually the latter. And since awful things had already happened this weekend, Peter was feeling far too drained to deal with anything else. He stared at the walls of his room for a minute.

The picture closest to him was of him and his Uncle Bruce, the day that all of the Avengers had gone to Disneyland for the day. Dad had flown them all out there and made a big production of it, of course. He'd bought the park for the day for just the Avengers and members of S.H.I.E.L.D. and their families. Steve usually hated it when Tony did things like that, but it was Peter's sixth birthday and he hadn't minded making an exception. It wasn't like they could invite kids over from his school for a party.

Needless to say, the lines had been essentially nonexistent, and Peter had gotten pictures with every single Disney character. Peter had been having a great time, but Bruce, who had neither children nor a date, had looked rather forlorn. Peter could remember him staring wistfully at the Dumbo ride. He'd let go of his dad's hand and gone right up to Bruce and taken his, demanding his uncle take him on the ride. Bruce had been a bit baffled at first, but as the ride went on, he was grinning and laughing along with Peter. Tony had snapped a shot of them flying through the air on the Dumbo ride, hands up and hair blowing in the wind.

Some of the other photos on the walls were from that particular Disneyland visit—one with him and his dads all wearing Mickey Mouse ears, one with Clint and Peter posing with pretend bows and arrows with Robin Hood—but not all of them. One, Peter's favorite, was with all of the Avengers in their costumes, laughing and smiling inside the Triskelion, with Peter hoisted on Pops' shoulders. The Avengers had been called in, but the threat had turned out to be a false alarm, so the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent kwho'd been babysitting Peter brought him by to see all his heroes in their full glory. Peter couldn't remember who'd cracked a joke right before the picture had been taken—it was probably Dad, Peter thought, or maybe Pops or Thor saying something out of place—but nevertheless, they'd all ended up cracking up just as the flash went off.

Peter sighed. It had been a while since he'd seen them all that happy. Years of hard crime fighting did nothing to lighten one's mood. Although, Peter reflected, Thor only seemed to grow more cheerful when he had more bodies to pummel with his hammer, but that was just Thor. Peter rolled out of bed and opened his door—he needed to shower and change before school, but he thought he'd rather have breakfast and get this conversation over with first.

He padded down the hall, still dressed in clothes from the previous day. Both of his dads were sitting at the breakfast table in uncomfortable silence. Pops pretended to be very focused on his scrambled eggs, and Tony likewise had a very interesting mug of coffee. Peter pulled out a chair and both of his dads looked up, startled. They must have been deep in thought, and _that_ thought gave Peter no comfort.

"Ok, let's get this over with," Peter sighed, slumping into the cushy seat. "What's going on?" His dads exchanged awkward, almost guilty glances.

"I guess we should get straight to the point, Peter…we know it's your senior year, but after this kidnapping incident we don't think Midtown High is going to be safe enough for you," Steve said. "We've laid out your new uniform for you there." Steve pointed to the seat beside Peter. He looked over at the folded garments—black pants, white shirt, and a navy coat and tie. The coat bore a Hawthorn tree and three latin words: _Doctrinaeue, Honorem, Fortitudo_.

"You're sending me to _Hawthorn Academy_?" Peter groaned.

"It's for the best, Peter—" Pops began.

"It's for rich kids that can't get in anywhere else!"

"They have security personnel stationed at every door. All faculty are sworn to secrecy about who attends—"

"It's my _senior year_—"

"You've never been attached to Midtown before, and besides you've been getting into fights—"

"Is _that_ what this is about? God, I said I'm _sorry_—"

"It's about your _safety_ Peter," Pops said firmly. "And you can complain about this all you want but it doesn't change the fact that tomorrow you start at Hawthorn."

"Tomorrow? What am I supposed to do today?" Peter asked.

"Happy will take you to Midtown to get your things from your locker, and then the day is yours to do with as you please, though I would suggest getting some rest," Pops said. Peter just looked at him.

"So that's that, then? No discussion, no input from me, just 'you're switching schools, sucks for you'?" Peter asked. Pops frowned at him. "Are you going to say anything about this, Dad?" His dad looked at him for a moment, then sighed.

"Your Pops is right. It was both our idea," Dad said. "You'll be better protected there, and it's closer to the penthouse, anyway."

"Don't you think that Joe Nobody going to a school like _Hawthorn_ might raise some eyebrows? That it might make me _more_ conspicuous?" Peter argued hotly.

"The staff is sworn to secrecy."

"The _students_ aren't!"

"Actually, they are, to an extent," Dad replied. "But you're right, it would just raise eyebrows. It would set you apart from the others. Which is why we've decided that at Hawthorn you won't have to hide. You've been enrolled under your birth name, Peter Stark." Peter blinked for a moment, speechless.

Never had there been a time in his life when he didn't have to hide who his parents were or where he came from. The few friends he'd had over the years hadn't ever been privy to the information—Peter would go over to _their_ houses to play, and Tony would drop him off with his motorcycle helmet still on. He'd never had a proper birthday party, had never had his friends over after school. He'd never hosted a sleepover, and certainly had never had his parents come for Career Day at school. Lying low was the price of Peter's normal life, and Peter had learned to accept that. He hadn't ever thought that _this_ might be a possibility.

"Shouldn't it be Peter Stark-Rogers?" was the first thing that came out of Peter's mouth. Pops shifted uncomfortably, and Dad avoided his gaze.

"That's…that's not on your birth certificate," Dad said.

"But that's what it _should_ be," Peter insisted.

"We're…not equipped to handle the implications of releasing that name, Peter," Pops said in a strained voice.

"…Are you leaving again?" Peter asked. There was only tense, uncomfortable silence in answer. "You _are_! You're leaving again!"

"It's just for—"

"A couple of days, sure," Peter said acidly. "Which is why I can't be Peter Stark-Rogers, because it's such a _temporary_ situation."

"Peter, my leaving has _nothing _to do with that," Pops said. He put a hand on Peter's shoulder, but Peter batted him away.

"Then what _does _it have to do with?" Peter asked, but Pops stayed silent, just staring at him with sorrowful eyes. But Peter didn't care—he was far too angry. "So that's it, then? I'm Tony Stark's son and that's _all_ that I am? I can be _half_ honest about my life—or is it actually being honest? Is that all that I am? Is that all I've ever been to you? Tony's kid?" Peter stood up and stormed out of the room, too angry to care about the deeply hurt expression on his Pops' face. He went to his room and slammed the door behind him, curling back up on his bed and pulling the blankets tight around his shoulders. He shut his eyes, wanting to go back to sleep, wanting for everything to just _go away. _

Peter didn't hear the door open, and he didn't hear Pops' footsteps, but he did feel the bed depress with his weight as he sat on the edge, and he felt Pops run his hand through his hair, stroking it gently, soothingly. Peter opened his eyes.

"Did your dad and I ever tell you about the day you were born?" Pops asked. Peter shook his head. They never talked about the circumstances surrounding his birth. What Peter knew was only what he'd managed to piece together over the years.

"I was still mad at Tony," Pops began. "I was mad at him for cheating on me with some random woman from his company. I was mad at him for some of his behavior following finding out about her pregnancy. Most of all, I was mad at myself for expecting him to change, for trusting him at all, for being a fool.

"I got a call about a week after having a huge blow-out fight with him in the middle of a battle with the rest of the Avengers. There was talk of disbanding the team, or at least removing either myself or Tony from the mix. It was a mess, and Fury was—well, furious. But I got this call, and it was Tony on the other line, and frankly I'd never heard him sound so panicked. He said Rebecca was in labor, and that he didn't know what to do. I don't think we ever told you this, but Tony was seriously considering giving you up for adoption. He wasn't ready for a kid, he said. He'd only screw one up, he said. The child would be better off without him, he said. I'd tried to talk him down from it, and by the time Rebecca went into labor, he still hadn't decided what to do. And he felt alone—he _was_ alone.

"I couldn't let him make a decision that he would regret. So I dropped everything I was doing at the Triskelion and drove over to the hospital to meet him. Tony hadn't called me until almost the end of Rebecca's labor, so by the time I got there, you were already born. Tony was babbling on at me, he was so nervous. They led us into the newborn care unit to see you, and Tony just kept babbling on. He said that you just cried when he tried to pick you up earlier. And sure enough, when the nurse put you in his arms, you were silent for a moment, but then you just burst out wailing. And Tony just looked at me, and he looked more helpless than you did.

"'You see?' he told me, 'He just cries! I don't know what to do—here, you try—' I meant to tell him no. I meant to tell him off for dragging me into his problems, meant to tell him to man up and take care of his son himself, to accept his new responsibility as a single father, but I hesitated because of that look on his face, and before I knew it you were in my arms.

"You were so tiny, but already I could tell that you were Tony's. You had his lips, his jaw, and his eyes. And you looked up at me with those big brown eyes, and you stopped crying and smiled instead. And that was it. Nothing else mattered. I just wanted you to keep smiling, from that day until long after my death. That day at the hospital, Tony and I got over ourselves and worked things out. Two days later, we took you home together.

"For six weeks you'd only quiet when I held you, only sleep when it was me who rocked you. You have _always_ been my son as much as Tony's. And you know that." Pops finished his story, looking very seriously at Peter.

"If I smile now, will you stay?" Peter asked quietly. Peter didn't think he'd ever seen Pops look so sad. He enveloped him in a hug, which Peter returned, clutching at his Pops like he never wanted to let go.

"Oh my little boy," Pops said wearily, "It's not so simple as that."

"Why not?" Peter muttered into Pops' shoulder.

"It's not Tony who's screwed up this time," Pops said gently. He kissed Peter on the forehead and released him from the hug. Peter let go reluctantly. "Take a shower and get dressed. _I'll _take you to clean out your locker at Midtown."

Freshly showered and in recently laundered clothes, Peter walked down the halls of Midtown High, an odd feeling haunting him as he realized it would be his last time doing so. His dads were right, he'd born no great love for Midtown. Any friends he'd had in school had long since moved or ditched him for cooler crowds.

Peter didn't care much for the contents of his locker, either. For the most part, it was full of textbooks that belonged to the school. He only owned the shelves and a few magazine clippings of the Avengers that he'd put up at some point the previous year. In fact the only real reason he'd come was because of—

"Gwen!" Peter called when he spotted her. Gwen clearly saw him, and she promptly turned in the other direction. Peter hurried after her. "Gwen, I am _so sorry_ about yesterday, but—"

"I saw the movie. Batman dies at the end."

"Oh, wow, ok, spoilers much?" Peter said, then he nearly smacked himself. He'd gotten his mouth from his Dad, and this wasn't the first time he mourned that fact. "I mean—"

"I called you. Six times."

"I know, I—"

"You could have at least had the decency to _call_ and say you couldn't make it, or that you didn't want to."

"I would have if I could have but—" Peter broke off. What was he going to tell her? That he was kidnapped? Oh yes, that would go over very well. "—uh, my Dad caught me texting and took away my phone. Because I was grounded. And uh, I didn't have your number anywhere else so I couldn't use the house phone. And I tried to tell Dad that I needed to call you but he just said too bad."

"Peter Parker, I don't think I've ever met a worse liar than you," Gwen said flatly. Peter groaned internally.

"Gwen—"

"You could at least be _honest_ with me," Gwen said, sounding more hurt than angry. Peter felt a guilty pang.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth," Peter said honestly. Gwen still looked skeptical.

"Try me," she said. Peter looked around the crowded hall. Some people were looking their way, eavesdropping in to catch all the latest gossip.

"Not here," Peter said quietly. "But—if you want to know, then meet me in front of the Stark Industries building at five o'clock. I'll explain, and we can have dinner, on me. I'll cook. And we'll have the best view in all of Manhattan, I promise. And if you want to stand me up like I did to you, then I totally understand and here's your chance to get revenge." Gwen searched his face for a moment.

"You're really…_mysterious_, Peter Parker," she said finally. Peter grinned a slightly crooked grin.

"I know. Oh, I should probably mention that I'm transferring schools so this _might _ be the last time we see each other. You know. It's up to you," Peter said. Gwen rolled her eyes.

"You're awful, you know that?" she said. She started walking away.

"I'll be waiting!" Peter called after her. She glanced back at him once before continuing on her way. Peter smiled. He was _pretty sure_ she'd show. Now he just had to get things ready.

"What are you cooking for? We could just order out," Dad said, glancing over at the boiling pot of pasta Peter was diligently stirring. Pops had already packed his duffel and left—Peter had tried to ask Dad what Pops had done wrong, but Dad was silent on the subject.

"I'm cooking for Gwen," Peter said. Dad's eyebrows went up practically past his hairline.

"A _girl_?" he asked.

"Yes, a girl. A girl I really, really like. A girl I accidentally stood up yesterday. And she's coming up _here _to have dinner," Peter said. He didn't think his dad's eyebrows could go any higher, but somehow they did.

"She is, is she?" Dad asked.

"Yes, she is," Peter said. "I think that since you're making me transfer schools _and_ I was recently kidnapped, having a friend over for dinner is the _least_ I can get away with." Dad put his hands in the air.

"I'm not stopping you!" he said. Peter felt a knot in his chest loosen. He hadn't been sure what his dad's reaction would be. He'd never been allowed to have friends over before but…well, everything was changing. "Is she pretty?"

"Dad."

"She's smart, then."

"_Dad_."

"Well, in that case, I hope she's at least got a great rack."

"_DAD!_" Peter nearly knocked over the pot of pasta. Dad just chuckled and grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter.

"I'll order in. You kids have fun. Be safe," Dad said.

"I was _going _to say you should introduce yourself, but now I'm thinking the opposite," Peter said, scandalized.

"Oh-ho, meeting the parents? That serious, huh kid?" Dad asked, a suggestive expression on his face. Peter just stared back, expressionless.

"You get so worse without Pops around to temper you," Peter stated. It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. The teasing light disappeared from Dad's eyes.

"I'll say hello, Peter. Until she shows up, I'll be in the workshop," he said, and before Peter could apologize, he was gone. Peter sighed. Couldn't he do anything right, lately?

He drained the pasta and set everything up on the table. One good thing about the penthouse was that all the walls were just giant windows, so he moved the table closer to the window that faced the setting sun. He glanced at his phone for the time—ten 'til five. He changed quickly and then took the elevator down and scurried out the lobby and onto the street.

New York City was hitting its first wave of rush hour (though, truly, Peter felt like rush hour never really stopped or started at all), and people walked past Peter without paying him any heed. He looked around to try to find Gwen but he didn't see her. The crowds passed, the sun set further. The next time that Peter looked at his watch, it was 5:30. Peter could feel disappointment setting in. He couldn't blame her for wanting to stand him up, but he was still sad about it. He turned around to go back in the building when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late," Gwen said from behind him, "but to be fair, you were later." Peter turned. He felt his stomach flutter at her smile.

"True. Very true," Peter agreed. "Unfortunately, dinner might be cold by now."

"You know, I hear there's this crazy new invention called a _microwave_ that warms things up," Gwen teased. "So where exactly are we going?"

"Inside," Peter replied, pushing open the door. Gwen looked at him oddly.

"Inside…Stark Industries?" Gwen asked. She followed him in. He brought her into the elevator and scanned his card to get him to the penthouse.

"We're going up pretty far, aren't we?" Gwen asked after a while. Peter smiled.

"All the way to the top," he said. "I promised you the best view in Manhattan, didn't I?"

"But…isn't the penthouse of Stark Industries owned by Tony Stark? Isn't it kind of Iron Man's house?" Gwen asked, puzzled.

"More lately than usual, yes," Peter said. The elevator doors opened, and Peter heard Gwen gasp.

"This place is…_incredible_," Gwen said. "How—how did you get access? How are we up here?"

"Well, I got kidnapped yesterday so until we find a new house in a secure location, this is home," Peter said frankly. Gwen just stared at him.

"You—you live here? Do you know Tony Stark then?" Gwen asked. Her eyes roamed over every surface of the penthouse—Peter assumed she must have been too overwhelmed to notice the pictures hanging up.

"Well yeah. He's my dad," Peter said.

"Wait—what? But…I thought…I didn't know he had kids," Gwen said, baffled. Peter laughed.

"Well, you wouldn't. Billionaire superhero with children? It kind of paints a big red target, doesn't it? Hence the kidnapping," Peter said. Gwen's blue eyes widened.

"Wait, you weren't joking about that?" she asked. "Oh my God, you were actually kidnapped?"

"Yeah, though I can't tell you who by. It's all very hush-hush. But it's why I missed our date yesterday," Peter said apologetically.

"Are you ok?" Gwen asked.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine. This isn't the first time, don't worry about it," Peter said.

"So…you weren't kidding about transferring schools, either, were you?" Gwen asked.

"No, I wasn't," Peter replied. "I'm getting sent to Hawthorn 'for my safety'. But let's not worry about that—dinner's getting colder by the minute!" He led Gwen to the table and pulled out a chair for her which she took gladly. After a minute in the microwave each, both of their dishes were hot again.

"You made all this?" Gwen asked, twirling spaghetti around her fork.

"Well, the sauce is from a can, but I _did_ actually make the meatballs. They're my Dad's recipe," Peter said.

"It's delicious," Gwen said. She looked around. "You know, this kind of explains the whole first-place-in-the-science-fair-since-we-were-eight thing."

"Hey, I _earned_ those," Peter said.

"Oh, I have no doubt that you did," Gwen said, "but it explains how you got hold of advanced robotics parts when we were nine to make that little flying thing."

"That wasn't the science fair, that was the egg-drop project."

"You were supposed to make a _container_ that would keep it safe."

"Hey, that wasn't specified in the rules, and it's not like I just picked up a toy helicopter from radio shack—I _built_ that sucker," Peter said proudly.

"Yes, but it explains the distinctly Iron Man-like flight stabilizers and lack of helicopter-like propulsion," Gwen replied.

"Well, all right, I'll give you that," Peter conceded with a sheepish smile. Gwen smiled back. She had a lovely smile, Peter thought. Overall she just looked beautiful, especially in this light, with the soft orange glow of the sunset raining down on her and casting a strawberry tint to her bright blonde hair. And before Peter even understood what he was doing, he was leaning forward, and so was she, and their lips collided. Peter's heart raced, faster than it had ever raced, faster than it had beat when he was kidnapped, faster even than when he was soaring through the air. Her soft lips tasted like bubblegum chapstick and spaghetti sauce—a peculiar combination, but Peter didn't mind, because _he was kissing Gwen_ and it was the most amazing feeling in the world.

At least, it was amazing until he heard a very loud cough. They broke apart. His dad was standing nearby, a cup of coffee in his hand. Well, Peter thought, coffee was better than bourbon, at least.

"Did you make _meatballs_?" he asked. "I saw the spaghetti, but you didn't tell me you made meatballs."

"Because you would have eaten them all," Peter said. His dad scoffed.

"I would n—well, yes. Yes I would have," he said. "And then there wouldn't have been any left for this lovely lady, and that would be a shame."

"Dad, this is Gwen Stacy. Gwen, this is my dad, Tony Stark," Peter introduced them.

"Enchantee, mademoiselle," his dad said with a dramatic bow.

"It's nice to meet you too, Mr. Stark," Gwen replied.

"And now you've been introduced," Peter said pointedly.

"You know, Gwen, Peter was the _cutest_ baby—I've got an album around here somewhere—"

"_Dad!_"

"All right, all right, another day," his dad said. He swiped an extra fork off the table and grabbed a meatball with it. "I'm going. It was nice to meet you, Gwen. And I hope Peter remembers that you can ask our chauffeur, Happy, to drive you home—a young lady shouldn't have to walk these streets alone at night."

"Oh, that's very kind of you to offer, Mr. Stark—"

"It's just common courtesy. You kids have fun—but not _too_ much fun—and don't stay up that late, it is a school night," Dad said, and then he left the room.

"We should finish the meatballs before he comes back," Gwen said conspiratorially.

"Ohh, that's just cruel," Peter said with a wicked grin.

Later that night (at around three in the morning) an overly-caffeinated Tony would discover that there were no meatballs leftover and, fraught with grief, would send Happy out for ingredients and make more himself. Peter, for his part, would be sound asleep, dreaming of perfect sunsets and bubblegum flavored chapstick.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Hello there all you lovely people! I've been absolutely adoring to the response to this story. I love reading your reviews. But I've noticed a bit of a pattern to them-many of you are asking what's going on with Steve and Tony, and expressing that you can't wait to find out what's up with them. This is understandable, and because I knew that this very thing would be aggravating to you readers, this story is also written from Steve and Tony's perspectives. It's called "What Peter Doesn't Know (_Can_ Hurt Him)" and it can be found on my profile under the list of stories I've written. I _strongly suggest_ that you also read WPDK along with LID-and I'd also like to mention that reviews are appreciated on _both_ stories *wink wink*. Anyway, here's chapter seven!

It was Peter's first day of going to Hawthorn Academy. It was Peter Stark's first day of really being alive. Peter wasn't sure who, exactly, Peter Stark was just yet, but he was different from Peter Parker, and he was different, Peter was certain, from Peter Stark-Rogers, though he had never met him either.

It was all a bit overwhelming—a new school, and a new identity all in the same day—and Peter was just doing his best to keep up. Hawthorn was an old brick building, with the stereotypical ivy crawling up the side, and a great old Hawthorn tree straight in front of the building, covered in red berries. The halls of the school were winding and Peter didn't see much sense in the floor plan. Having not received any type of map, Peter was so disoriented that he had no clue where he was by the time the first bell rang.

He was late to class. On the first day. A security guard (dressed only in a suit and tie and indicated only as a guard by the radio device in his ear) watched him, but said nothing.

"Excuse me," Peter said, "but do you know where room 104 is? I'm assuming it's somewhere here on the first floor…" The guard continued to watch him, but again he said nothing. "Um, so, you don't know where it is?" Silence was the only answer he received. Peter felt his cheeks burn red in a combination of embarrassment and anger. He was used to having other kids ignore him—he was not used to adults pulling the same kind of crap.

"I wouldn't bother, it's like talking to a wall," spoke a boy only just now wandering through the entrance to the building. Wait, how had he ended up back at the entrance? Peter groaned internally—this school was impossible. "They're not supposed to converse with the students. Trying to get one to respond is like taunting a Buckingham Palace Guard."

"Well, that's helpful," Peter said sarcastically. "I don't suppose you know where in the hell room 104 is."

"Actually I do. I'm headed up there now—it's on the fourth floor," replied the boy. He wore the Hawthorn uniform, but he wore it sloppily. Before he had left, Pops must have had Peter's uniform pressed and dry-cleaned, because it was impeccable. Peter wore it exactly as intended, but the tails of this boy's shirt were hanging out, his tie was loose and his slacks were wrinkled. He carried his jacket over one shoulder instead of bothering to put it on, and he wore sunglasses over his eyes. In any other circumstance Peter would have instantly labeled him a douchebag and stayed far away, but he wasn't about to be picky about potential allies. Peter couldn't think of anyone at Hawthorn as a potential _friend_ just yet. That was too much. He'd never really had proper friends, except Gwen, now, he supposed.

"Why, for the love of God, is room _one_-oh-four on the fourth floor?" Peter asked.

"Here's a tip—if it ends in 4, it's on the fourth floor. If it ends in 3, the third, and so on," the boy explained. He started heading up the stairs, so Peter followed him.

"That's possibly one of the most counter-intuitive designs I've ever heard of," Peter replied.

"I think it's to keep potential threats guessing," the boy said, running a hand through his thick brown hair. "Hence the lack of maps. Who are you, anyway? It's not often we get transfers once the year has started."

"I'm Peter P—Stark. Peter Stark," Peter said. The other boy raised his eyebrows.

"Like, Stark as in Stark Industries, or no relation?" he asked, removing his sunglasses. Peter understood why he was wearing them—he had dark bags under his eyes, which were red and irritated. It was either drugs or alcohol, Peter knew, and he probably had a massive hangover.

"Tony Stark is my Dad," Peter clarified.

"No shit? Didn't know he had a kid. Or kids," the boy replied.

"Kid," Peter said.

"Huh," the boy said as they climbed the last step. "Well I'm Harry. Harry Osborn. Guess that makes us…competitors? Rivals? Or something." But Harry stuck out his hand anyway, and Peter shook it with a grin.

"Oh yeah. Huge rivals. The teachers will dread to have us in class together," Peter said.

"New rules will be instated just to keep us from killing each other," Harry agreed. "For years after our graduation, students will wonder why there is an oddly specific rule about bringing biologically engineered goats to school."

"Ok, later, you have to tell me about that plan," Peter said, grin broadening.

"It'd be my pleasure, Stark," Harry said before swinging open the door to a classroom that Peter assumed must be room 104.

"Mr. Osborn," said the teacher tiredly. "And—oh, this must be the new student. Peter Stark, correct."

"Yes, sir," Peter said. "Harry was just showing me around." It wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't entirely a lie, either. The teacher looked at them both a bit suspiciously, but said nothing on the matter.

"All right then. Next time, you will be expected to show up to class on time, Mr. Stark, but I think just this once you can be excused. And…never thought I'd say this, but, Mr. Osborn I have to commend your initiative in making our new student feel welcome. Just this once, you are also excused for your tardiness," the teacher (who later introduced himself as Mr. Martinez) bid them to take seats, which they did, near the back of the classroom and right next to one another.

The class was advanced calculus, and there were only eleven other students in the class. Peter grew to understand that this was the norm for Hawthorn Academy, and in fact the entire senior class was only twenty-five students strong—well, twenty-six now, he supposed. Harry told him everything about everyone at the school.

"That's Jason Keller—I have no idea how he managed to get into Advanced Calculus, he's as dumb as a rock," Harry whispered to him as Mr. Martinez lectured, pointing out a large blonde kid near the front of the class. "Next to him is Jennifer Goldwin—hot, rich, but a seriously frigid prude." The girl he spoke about was blonde and had a sweet, heart-shaped face. She wore a headband that reminded him of Gwen—and Peter rather thought she looked like a nice person, but he didn't say as much to Harry.

Harry went through each of his classmates in the same way, and when his U.S. History class rolled around, he did the same with the remaining students. Given that there were so few students, Peter was not surprised to discover that he and Harry had the same schedule.

"Amy Dawson is the redhead—she's great to party with. Kate Bishop is the one with the black hair, but say the wrong thing around her and you might end up with a couple of teeth knocked out," Harry said as their history professor droned on about something that might have been important, but Peter _really_ didn't care. Because someone was talking to him, willingly and without prompting, and for once in his life, maybe Peter wouldn't be a social outcast. Peter _Parker_ might have been a lame science geek with no friends, but Peter _Stark_…well, that could be a different matter entirely.

"Mr. Stark, why don't you answer the question?" spoke the history teacher whose name Peter could not recall. Peter shifted uncomfortably. Ok, maybe now Peter cared a little bit.

"Um," Peter said.

"I would think that you, of all people, would know the answer to this question," the teacher said, crossing his arms.

"Um," Peter repeated, "I'm—I'm sorry sir, what was the question again?"

"Next time, pay attention. I've been informed that you are an excellent student—perhaps you should choose your company more carefully," the teacher spoke.

"Hey," Harry said indignantly, but the teacher ignored him.

"The question was, Mr. Stark, what were the names of the two most influential scientists in the creation of World War II hero Captain America?" the teacher asked.

"Howard Stark and Doctor Abraham Erskine," Peter answered almost automatically.

"Correct. And do you know why no further super-soldiers were made?"

"Because Doctor Erskine was the only one who knew the final formula, and he was shot by Hydra agents shortly after the experiment was deemed a success," Peter said.

"Correct again, Mr. Stark," the teacher said. "And have you any idea why your grandfather was spared assassination?" Peter blinked.

"He…he didn't know the formula. And Hydra didn't have a personal grudge against him, like he did Erskine," Peter said uncertainly.

"He didn't know the formula—the one thing that made a soldier a _super_ soldier, and he didn't know it. Is it safe to say then, that Howard Stark's contributions to Project Rebirth are exaggerated?"

"I—"

"Is it safe to say that Howard Stark's contributions to Project Rebirth were exaggerated in order to draw focus away from Howard Stark's work on the Manhattan Project, which, of course, ended with the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives?"

"And ended the war," Peter argued.

"So you agree."

"I didn't—I don't!" Peter said adamantly. The teacher looked at him with an amused expression.

"History is made by those in power," the teacher said to the class. "It can be easily shaped by a company as powerful as Stark Industries, of which your new classmate is heir. Truth is harder to find. Does truth even exist? Or are there many truths? As historians—which you all are, when you sit in my classroom—we must do our best to see all sides of a situation. We must attempt to be neutral. For most of you students, neutrality will be difficult. You come from influential families, many with long histories, like Mr. Stark's here. But in order to succeed in my class, you must put your personal feelings aside." The teacher looked again at Peter. "I was harsh on purpose. I've seen the documentation—Howard Stark's Vita-Ray machine was crucial to Project Rebirth, and without it, it's doubtful that the serum would have ever succeeded. But by the same token, it _was_ used as a PR campaign. And you didn't want to hear it. We all have a responsibility in this class to the truth. We cannot let our personal feelings or attachments cloud our judgment."

Peter felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment and fury. He'd never been called out in class so _personally_ before. His hands balled into fists in his lap. The bell rang, and everyone grabbed their bags and left, with the teacher shouting after them,

"Read pages 202-228 in your textbook for Thursday!" he said. Peter picked up his own bag and walked with Harry out the door.

"God, Mr. Donovan is such an ass," Harry said as soon as they were out of the teacher's earshot. Peter didn't say anything in response—he was too mad. "Don't take it personally, Pete, he does it to everybody at some point."

"Did he have to do it on my first day?" Peter grumbled. Harry just grinned.

"Means he likes you, Pete," Harry said.

"Great," Peter said, rolling his eyes.

"Come on, I'll show you the cafeteria and we can get some lunch," Harry offered. "After that we've got physics with Doctor Octavius. He's all right." Harry steered Peter towards the cafeteria, which was smaller than Peter was used to, but the food was a thousand times better. Peter eagerly chowed down on his roast beef sandwich as Harry introduced him to the other kids that sat at their table—Kate Bishop, Jake Lilly, Jordan Dempsey, Meredith Chrysler, Amy Dawson, and Jennifer Goldwin.

"What's it like, having Iron Man as a dad?" Jake asked.

"Oh, uh, cool, I guess?" Peter said. Oddly, it was a question that he'd never had to answer before.

"Do you know all the Avengers?" Jordan wanted to know.

"Yeah, they're kind of an extended family," Peter started, but the questions started coming faster.

"Don't you just love Black Widow? She's my favorite—"

"Are you crazy? What about _Thor_? He's so awesome. Is he really that big in real life?"

"And why haven't we heard of you before? Who was your mother?" Amy Dawson asked.

"Uh—" Peter began uncomfortably, feeling a little bit trapped. What was he supposed to tell them? That he had been in hiding his entire life? That he'd never even met his mother?

"Guys, Jesus, give Stark a break," Harry said. "It's not like he's going anywhere. I'm sure we'll hear all about his adventures with the Avengers later…like at the party at my house this weekend." The announcement was meant with cheers, and Meredith and Jennifer both pulled out their phones, likely spreading the word. But Peter just wanted to disappear into his seat.

He'd never had friends, let alone been considered _interesting_, and he didn't _have_ any 'adventures with the Avengers' to share. He'd never been allowed to go on missions. Hell, he'd only been to the Triskelion a handful of times and the Helicarrier a grand total of _once_ (during which time he'd been kidnapped, he might add). He didn't exactly have any heroic stories—and the couple of interesting, heroic stories he _did_ have now, well, he wasn't about to share those. But Harry clapped him on the back and grinned, and Peter grinned weakly back. He'd just have to think of something.

Luckily, the rest of Peter's school day was not half so eventful as the morning had been. Doctor Octavius was amusing and Peter enjoyed his take on the physics lesson of the day, even if it was basic enough that Peter could have taught it. When he finished his assignment early, he got into a lively discussion with 'Doc Ock', as his students affectionately called him, about more advanced concepts of the subject. His last class was English, and it also seemed to be stuck on a Shakespeare unit. Needless to say, Peter sketched and daydreamed and—to his delight—passed notes with Harry. By the time the last bell rang, he felt like he'd known the other boy for years. Arrogant, lackadaisical, party-boy Harry Osborn had weirdly become fast friends with Peter Stark.

_Dad isn't going to like this_, Peter thought with a wince as Happy drove him back to the penthouse. Perhaps he'd just…_omit_ Harry from the day when his dad asked. He could get around it. He could say he'd made friends with a few kids but not be specific. Yes, that would have to work.

Peter rode the elevator up to the penthouse. He wasn't surprised to find that his dad wasn't around, but the apartment felt…oddly large and empty. But then Peter remembered he wasn't _exactly_ alone.

"Hey JARVIS, where's Dad at?" Peter asked.

"Master Stark is working in the lab. Would you like me to inform him that you are home?" JARVIS asked.

"Sure, but tell him he doesn't need to stop working," Peter replied. He set down his bag, loosened his tie, and grabbed a pudding cup out of the fridge. He was glad that someone—Pepper, probably—had restocked it. Peter didn't see Pepper all that often—since his dad had Pops to handle the domestic side of things, she'd never been needed at their home in Brooklyn, and Peter was rarely at Stark Tower. But he knew that Pepper handled most his dad's business, and she was always around for every important holiday or event. And it wasn't that he didn't like Pepper, but he had a bad feeling that he'd be seeing a lot more of her. Peter took a seat at the table to enjoy his snack.

"Hey champ, how was your first day of school?" Tony called out. He had oil in his hair and a smudge of black grease on his forehead. He was still wiping his hands with an old washcloth as he walked in.

"Not as horrible as I thought it would be," Peter admitted. Tony strode over to the sink, turning on the water to wash his hands of the stubborn grease and oil from the workshop. "I think you just need a shower, Dad—what were you even working on?"

"The cars. All of them. Just doing little tune-ups is all," Dad said. Peter nodded, but he couldn't shake the sense that something was wrong. His Dad always worked, although he worked more incessantly the more upset he was. Peter watched the running water as his Dad splashed it on his face—and that was when Peter saw it. Or rather, when Peter _didn't_ see it. Immediately Peter tensed with anxiety.

"Hey Dad?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, Pete?"

"What happened to your ring?"

"My what?" Tony asked, confused. He wiped his face with the washcloth, but it only smeared on more grease. Tony growled in frustration, splashed on more water and grabbed a kitchen towel.

"Your ring, Dad," Peter said, keeping the panic out of his voice as best he could. "What happened to your wedding ring?" His father's hands were completely bare, but Dad never took off that ring. Pops often took his off—he took it off when he went to the gym, so he wouldn't hurt his hands. He took it off when he became Captain America, for the same reason. But Dad didn't ever take his off. Grease and oil spilled on it. It had scratches from where it had caught on metal that he was working with for this project or that project. It had taken a beating over the years, but Peter had never seen it off his Dad's finger. Tony looked at his hands.

"Oh, right. I took it off to clean it," he said. He didn't elaborate, and Peter didn't ask why he hadn't put it on. He didn't want to know the answer. Especially not when it was so obvious that his Dad was lying in the first place. Peter got up from the table, throwing his half-eaten pudding cup in the trash. "Pete?"

"I've got homework to do," Peter said by way of explanation, but he realized once he was in his room that he'd forgotten his bag. His head was spinning. His Dad had _taken off his wedding ring_. Were his parents getting divorced? Had the papers already been served? Peter threw himself down on his bed, not caring that he was messing up his uniform in the least. He toyed with the idea of calling Pops, but what could he say? '_Heya Pops, how are you today? Were you aware that your husband has cast off his wedding ring?' _Somehow, Peter didn't see that conversation going too well.

He hated that he couldn't fix this. He hated that he couldn't do anything to help fix his broken family. He hated that he was so weak and vulnerable that he had to switch schools. He hated that his life was falling apart around his ears and that he was _helpless_. He was helpless little Peter Parker. He was useless. And it just made him so _angry_, he just wanted to _punch_ something, and—Peter shot up from his bed and stripped off his clothes. He grabbed his Spider-Man suit and put it on, then quickly threw sweat pants and a sweatshirt over it.

"JARVIS is Dad still outside?"

"Master Stark has resumed work in his lab," JARVIS said.

"Good. I'm leaving. Let him know I went for a walk if he asks," Peter said, but he knew his Dad wouldn't ask. He probably wouldn't resurface from his lab until late—hell, Peter might not even see him for the next three days.

The thought just pissed him off more.

Peter took one of the back exits to the building and then just started walking. Eventually, he found a suitable alley in which to change. He put on the mask and removed his sweats, and suddenly he wasn't Peter Parker anymore, or even Peter Stark or Peter Stark-Rogers. He was _Spider-Man_, vigilante superhuman (not quite superhero just yet, Peter thought, but soon). He crawled up the side of the nearest skyscraper, going all the way to the top. He could move so fast now that his ears popped on his way up.

From atop the skyscraper, Peter felt like he was on top of the world, like nothing could stop him. And then he jumped, and he was soaring through the air, hanging by a thread and swinging like Tarzan. He felt…free.

And when he happened upon a robbery on the east side, he stopped it, using only his webbing and his fists—and even if he wasn't supposed to relish it, Peter couldn't help but feel his tension release when he punched a robber in the face, couldn't help but feel empowered when he yanked his gun away with webbing. He left the two of them tied up together, held by web. He might have a bruise or two where the second robber had clocked him, but Peter could hardly feel it as he returned to the air.

One robbery turned into two. Then there was an assault he had to stop. And then there was a mugging. And then there was a kidnapping he prevented. One by one, Peter stopped crime in its tracks. He found that he could _sense_ where something bad was happening. It was an odd, creepy feeling, like the one he'd had the day of his kidnapping, but it was useful.

The Avengers might be good at saving the world from foreign or alien threats, but Spider-Man was good at saving the world from itself.

A little bruised and battered but not too beat up, Peter gathered up his clothes and returned home. It was late, but Peter didn't know _how_ late. When he walked into the penthouse, his Dad still wasn't around.

"Is Dad still in the lab, JARVIS?" Peter asked.

"Yes, Master Peter," JARVIS responded.

"Did he ask about me?" Peter asked.

"No, Master Peter," JARVIS replied. Peter could have been imagining it, but it sounded like JARVIS was…disappointed? Resigned? Perhaps both. Or perhaps that was just how Peter was feeling.

Exhausted, Peter barely managed to strip his Spider-Man costume off and hide it in the depths of his closet before collapsing on his bed. It was one in the morning. None of his homework was done. But despite all the good work he'd done that night, Peter Parker, Peter Stark, Peter Stark-Rogers and Spider-Man all felt like shit.

On Wednesday, Peter Stark had his second day at Hawthorn Academy. He fell asleep in his first class (Chemistry), passed notes to Harry in his second class (Advanced Computer Science) about the crazy night Harry had had at some club he shouldn't have been allowed into, spent his third class (study hall) doing the exact same thing as it was a rather long story with surprising twists and turns and occasionally led into other stories about previous clubbing shenanigans, and only paid attention in his fourth and last class of the day, Photography.

Upon arriving home, he discovered that his dad was still in the lab. He talked with Gwen on the phone for two hours, ate two pudding cups but nothing for dinner, and pulled the whole Spider-Man act once more, arriving home at two in the morning to neither fanfare nor punishment.

On Thursday Peter realized he hadn't done any of his homework, and incurred detention on Saturday for this transgression. He recalled that he was supposed to have coffee with his mother, panicked, and thought he might call to reschedule for the very specific date of _never_. Upon arriving home, he said hello to his Dad, who had surfaced from the lab to grab some leftover pizza out of the fridge (pizza…pizza…when had they had pizza?). He received a distracted grunt in return before his Dad disappeared again.

There still was no ring on his finger.

Peter arranged another date with Gwen (they were finally going to see that Batman movie because no, she hadn't seen it by herself, and no, she didn't actually know if Batman died at the end, although they both agreed that such would be a fitting though depressing ending and Peter _really_ didn't want to think about dying superheroes but he was all for coherent story arcs), did any homework that he had to physically hand in and none of the rest of it, toyed with the idea of calling Pops, and then snuck out again to be Spider-Man. He stopped three muggings, one potential rape, and nearly got knocked out and _did _get the wind knocked out of him by a particularly sly robber that Peter hadn't realized was in fact a mutant.

It was three in the morning when he took a shower, realizing that he was peppered with bruises—some dark and purple and fresh, some turning a yellowish-green with age, but all sore. Even the hot water pounding on his back was too much. He toweled off quickly and went to sleep.

On Friday, Harry was practically bouncing out of his seat, even though Peter could barely keep his eyes open.

"It's _Friday,_ Pete," Harry said.

"Uh-huh," Peter replied. What class was he even in? Oh, right, Chemistry. But he didn't have to worry about screwing up because he was sleeping. Harry was screwing up their project with marked enthusiasm without Peter's help. Peter wondered briefly why he'd picked Harry as a lab partner, but the thought was cut off by Harry's incessant chatter.

"_Friday_, Pete. Don't you remember? Party at my house?" Harry asked. Peter blinked slowly.

"Oh. Right. Where do you live, again?" Peter asked. Harry just laughed.

"Why don't you just come with Bernard and me after school today? Then I won't have to worry about you getting lost, Petey," Harry teased. Peter was too out of it to even care.

"Sure, sure," Peter said, and then he slumped his head forward on the desk and promptly fell asleep.

Good old Harry got Peter through the rest of the day, though Peter followed in a zombie-like haze of exhaustion, aches, and pains. He was once again chastised for not doing his homework, and his detention time was extended by thirty minutes. Peter had never been to detention before, so he wasn't really sure what it entailed but it sounded unpleasant. He wondered in his haze if they would force him to walk through the Forbidden Forest and look for injured unicorns, before he realized that idea was nonsense. It was much more likely he'd get stuck cleaning cauldrons.

After sleeping through basically the entire day, Peter felt a little bit better. He texted Happy to let him know that he'd be going to a friend's house and not to bother picking him up, and he went home with Harry and Bernard, who turned out to be Harry's butler.

"Hey have you seen this?" Harry asked, handing him his phone. It was a page from _The Daily Bugle Online_, and the thing that stuck out was a slightly out-of-focus, rather far away photo of Spider-Man flying through the air on a web, with the bold title, "SPIDER-MAN: HERO OR MENACE", which Peter rather though was extreme. Wasn't there an in-between?

"Masked vigilantes are kind of old news, aren't they?" Peter asked, handing it back.

"Yeah, but this guy is like, half-spider or something. It's crazy," Harry said. "People are saying he's got an exoskeleton and extra arms." Peter squinted at the picture.

"Looks like a dude to me," he said. "A mutant, maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary."

"Jeez, Parker, you always this much of a buzz kill?" Harry asked with a laugh. "Because that might be a bit of a problem tonight." He opened the door and got out of the limousine. Peter found with relief that they weren't at Oscorp (apparently, Norman Osborn was less married to his work than Tony Stark) but rather at a fancy apartment complex. They still went all the way up to the penthouse, though, so obviously he was just as ostentatious. Harry threw his stuff down on the floor as soon as he walked in. Peter reluctantly followed suit.

"So…what do you want to do until the party? We could see if there are any good movies on—" Peter started, but Harry was already getting beers out of the fridge. He tossed one to Peter. Peter looked at it for a moment. Pops didn't drink, but he knew his Dad did often.

"You know, Peter," Peter could remember his Pops saying, "I'm not going to tell you not to drink. But I do think it would be a wiser decision to steer clear of it. The Starks have a history of alcohol dependency, and that sort of thing can run in families. It's a tough thing to toss off. Moderation is key." But of course, Pops couldn't get drunk. Peter looked at the bottle.

Well, one beer was moderation, right?

"Where's your dad?" Peter asked before popping the top off. Harry shrugged.

"Fuck if I know. But he's not usually home on weekends, and Bernard says he said he'd be out of town," Harry replied. The Harry gave him an amused grin. "You gonna drink that or just stare at it?"

"Huh? Oh," Peter said. He took a gulp and nearly spat it back out. It was bitter and unpleasant. He choked it down, and it burned his throat. He took another swig anyway. Harry was just watching him, a knowing look in his eyes and a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Did I just pop your alcohol cherry?" Harry asked. Peter felt his cheeks burn.

"No," he lied.

"Liar," Harry said with a laugh, taking another drink. He clapped Peter on the back. "Welcome to the big kid club, Stark." Peter just rolled his eyes.

"I'm not so sure you're in that club, Osborn," he said. Harry just smirked at him, then grabbed a basketball that was sitting on a chair. "Hey we've got a court in the back—how about we go a few rounds."

"You have a basketball court in your house?" Peter asked.

"Jesus, Stark, I thought you were rich, but you don't have a basketball court in your house?" Harry teased. Peter put down his beer and Harry tossed him the ball. "C'mon, take off your coat and let's go."

Peter had never played sports much before, but his spider abilities made him freakishly good. He had to _let_ Harry get a couple of shots, which was just such a bizarre concept to Peter. By the end of the match Harry had poured more beer into Peter, claiming that maybe it would be a fair match when both of them were drunk, and Peter couldn't think of an excuse not to. And he wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to think up an excuse not to. Their second game was hence much more sloppy. They were already good and buzzed by the time the party go-ers showed up.

Harry had an awesome sound system and pumped up the music as loud as it could go. Peter thought he could feel the whole building shake. Most of the school had shown up to the party, and it looked like plenty of them had brought friends from other schools. They were all dancing (could it be called dancing? It hardly looked like dancing to Peter) and wooping and playing table tennis (no, wait, that was beer pong) and accidentally breaking things with ping pong balls (how anyone managed to break things with ping pong balls Peter would never know).

Peter went over to his stuff and grabbed his phone—his Dad might have texted him to check up on him. Or Pops might have called. And he had _detention_ in the morning, so he should _really_ get home. Harry slung an arm around him and brandished an entire bottle of tequila at him.

"Heyyy, Petey—check it out we—we've got…the salt and the lemons…no…not lemons…green lemons…gremons…all set up c'mon we're gonna do shots," Harry said. Peter checked his phone.

_0 messages_

No Dad, no Pops, no Happy—no one concerned about his whereabouts. No one concerned about Peter. He shoved his phone back in his bag.

"Yeah, ok, Harry," Peter said, and he followed him an a crowd of cheering guys and girls towards the kitchen with the bottle of tequila.

Peter was dying. He was sure of that. Everything hurt. His whole body was sore, his head was pounding. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was like a knife in his brain, so he shut them hard. He groaned.

"You awake Pete?" at least Harry had the decency to whisper, but it still felt like his ears were being assaulted.

"I think I'm dead," Peter disagreed. Harry chuckled, and then Peter felt something cool in his hands. Peter peaked one eye open—it was a bottle of water. Harry put two white pills in his other hand.

"I'm pretty sure you'll live, but don't hold me to it," Harry said.

"How are you so…so…alive…" Peter said for lack of a better word. He downed the pills and chased it with the water. His stomach rebelled.

"Practice," Harry said. "You should be proud though, you took more than I thought you would and I didn't see you worshipping the porcelain throne at any point."

"Woo," Peter said, devoid of enthusiasm.

"So anyway, do you want to go out tonight? I know this place—"

Peter just groaned.

"I'll take that as a no," Harry said. "Anyway, the floor can't be that cozy."

"No, this floor…this floor is good…this floor is soft."

"Peter, you're lying on tile."

"Floor is good."

"You can have my bed, or at least the couch—" Peter groaned and heaved himself upright.

"No, no I should really get home—what time is it?"

"Uh, one pm. It's Saturday," Harry clarified. Peter nearly slumped right back over.

"Shit," Peter said. "I missed detention."

"Eh, what's the worst they can do?" Harry asked. He helped heave Peter to his feet. Peter looked at his phone.

_O Messages_

Well, at least that was one less thing he had to worry about.

"Come on, Pete, Bernard can take you home."

Peter expected this to be awkward. He was still wincing from the sunlight and from the daylight-lightbulbs once he was in the building. He snuck up to the Penthouse—but Dad was still nowhere in sight.

"JARVIS—half volume. Where's my Dad?" Peter asked in a whisper.

"He is out fighting crime, Master Peter," JARVIS answered.

"Has he asked about me?"

"No, Master Peter." Peter felt relief, but he wasn't sure what else he felt. Aching from his bruises and head still pounding from his hangover, Peter fell onto his bed, his wrinkled uniform still on.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I've had a couple of questions/comments regarding the time period of this story. I've done my best to give readers the timeline of the story without coming out and saying it, but I know it can be confusing. So for clarification:_

_The year is 2034. Steve and Tony got together two years after his time on ice (2014). Peter was born two years later in 2016. They were married three years after that, on December 5__th__ 2019, and since Peter is 18 it's 15 years later, which puts us at 2034 in this story._

_According to Marvel canon, this means that Tony is 62 years old in LID. Steve is (I think) 47—or 116 if you count all that time on ice. I hope this clears any uncertainties up and puts a few things in perspective._

Peter had never really been punished in his entire life. He was a good kid. He wasn't one to get into trouble. In fact, the closest he had come to being in trouble was recently, when Flash had the audacity to run right into his fist. But of course, his dads hadn't actually _done_ anything about that, because what was there _to_ be done?

And it wasn't as if Peter was a perfect little angel. He sloughed off his English homework more often than not and spent plenty of his time drawing sketches or contemplating how something might make a good photo, but he was never the type to get into trouble.

But now, Peter knew, now he was in trouble. He played the message over again.

"_Hello, Mr. Stark, this is Kathy Manson from the Hawthorn Academy calling in regards to your son, Peter. This week Peter failed to complete many of his homework assignments and he earned a detention, which was to take place earlier today. Peter did not show up for his detention. If his behavior does not improve, further action will have to be taken. Please call me back at your earliest convenience, thank you."_

Peter stared at his tablet for a minute, debating what to do. His Dad obviously hadn't checked his messages yet—if he had, Peter would probably still be sitting through a lecture. This left him with two choices. Choice one: he could come clean before his dad received the message, letting him know that he'd overslept and missed detention and that it would never happen again. Choice two: he could erase the message from JARVIS' database and pretend like it never happened.

Choice one was the responsible choice, Peter knew. But Peter also knew that his Dad would be mad at Peter for just _getting_ a detention, let alone _missing_ it. And if he asked why he wasn't doing his homework, what would Peter tell him? '_Oh, just been too busy being a vigilante in my free time, Dad'_? No, that wasn't likely to turn out very well. '_Oh, just been hanging out with Harry Osborn a little too much, Dad'_? No, in fact that conversation would likely be _worse_ than admitting to his Dad that he was a vigilante.

Choice two was consequence free, at least for now and hopefully forever. Unless his dad figured out he was using override codes on JARVIS, in which case…well, Peter _really_ didn't want to think about what his dad would do if he found out about that. Any way he sliced it, Peter was likely to get into trouble. But with choice number two, there was a small chance he wouldn't, so…choice number two it was.

"JARVIS, override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega," Peter said.

"Override code accepted," JARVIS spoke.

"Delete the most recent voice message off the penthouse's database," Peter commanded. "And from anywhere else it might be."

"May I first advise that this course of action could have unpleasant consequences in the future, Master Peter?" JARVIS said.

"Just do it, JARVIS," Peter said uncomfortably.

"Very well, sir. Message deleted," JARVIS said.

"Thanks, JARVIS," Peter said. He thought he should feel relieved, but he didn't. The knot in his stomach was only tighter. "Override code 3-2-6-5-Beta-1-4-9-Omega deactivate."

"Override deactivated. Systems functions normal," JARVIS said. Peter put his tablet down on his desk.

He'd gotten detention, missed detention, gone out drinking and partying, stood up his own mother because he'd forgotten to call, and now he was hiding it all by physically banning JARVIS from being a tattletale. Peter wondered if this was the _start_ of a spiral, or if he was _already_ spiraling down faster than he could handle. Either way, Peter needed something to staunch the flow or put on the brakes. Luckily, he had just the thing.

He picked out his nicest pair of jeans, the only clean t-shirt he had (actually, it wasn't even his, it was Dad's old Black Sabbath shirt), and a heavy jacket for the cold. Despite the fact that it was now seven o'clock, his dad still hadn't returned from whatever mission he was on, and Peter wasn't about to wait up for him. He'd done enough waiting. He headed over to the movie theatre—he had a date, after all.

"Peter!" Gwen said with a smile as soon as he came into view. Gwen looked beautiful as always, in her knee-high socks, modest skirt, and sweater set. Peter couldn't help but smile when he saw her. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

"It's good to see you Gwen," Peter said, hesitantly putting an arm around her waist. To his immense relief, she leaned into his embrace.

"It's good to see you too, Peter," Gwen replied. "Biology just isn't the same without you. No one else makes fun of Mr. Stromberg's mustache with me." They walked over to the snack bar to pick up some popcorn and a single soda. Maybe it was the forties influence from his Pops, but the fact that they were sharing a soda made Peter as happy as anything else.

They finally sat down to watch the movie, and Peter realized suddenly that a superhero movie was probably the last thing that he wanted to see, but he sat his butt down in the chair and watched it anyway, because Gwen wanted to see it, and he wanted to be with Gwen. About halfway through, Peter realized that she was shivering—and if there was one thing that Peter had learned from Pops, it was _chivalry_. So he took off his jacket and offered it to her—and when she put it on, Peter decided that it looked much better on her, and he hoped she would keep it.

The movie, Peter thought, was decent enough, although he wasn't too fond of the lead actor, and he'd never been fond of the parallels between the fictional Bruce Wayne and his very real father, Tony Stark. His dad wasn't particularly fond of them either, which was why Batman movies had never entered Peter's movie repertoire as a kid. Nevertheless, he was smiling as the lights went up at the end of the credits. He looked over at Gwen to see what she thought of the movie, but he promptly lost his smile. She was looking at him in what could only be described as absolute horror.

"Peter," she breathed, "Peter, oh my _God_."

And that was the instant that Peter remembered that he was wearing a short sleeve t-shirt. His arms were peppered with bruises just like the rest of his body. Some were fresh and purple, others were yellow-green and fading, but it was pretty obvious that he was taking a beating on a fairly regular basis. He wished fervently in that moment that he had super-healing like his Pops.

"Uh," Peter said, unable to think of anything. Gwen looked him in the eyes and put a hand to his cheek.

"_Peter_," she said, "Peter, who _did_ this to you? Who's—who's _doing _this to you? Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's…it's not anything to worry about, Gwen," Peter said. He was feeling awfully self-conscious now and he suddenly wished he had his jacket back.

"The _hell_ it's not—Peter what's going on?" Gwen asked. The movie theatre employees were standing awkwardly by the door, waiting for them to vacate the theatre so that they could clean.

"Gwen—not here, _please_," Peter pleaded, glancing at the employees. Gwen, being perfect as usual, understood. She took off his jacket and handed it back to him. Wordlessly, he put it on and they left the theatre. It was raining outside, a miserable little drizzle that made the two of them walk faster towards the subway station and mirrored their moods. They were halfway to the station before either of them broke the silence.

"Is someone beating you Peter?" Gwen asked. "Is it someone at your new school?" Peter didn't answer. Gwen's voice dropped to an even lower tone. "Is it your Dad?"

"What? Oh, no—God no, Gwen nothing like that," Peter said with a frustrated sigh. He looked at Gwen, into her earnest blue eyes. He hadn't told anyone about his…_condition_. He hadn't even told his dads, and he told them everything. His stomach twisted with anxiety. He knew that he could trust Gwen with his secret, but how would she react? "It's…Gwen you're just going to have to trust me on this—everything's ok."

"No, Peter, everything is _not_ ok, you look like you've been hit and shot at with a paintball gun repeatedly," Gwen insisted, taking a gentle hold of his wrist. _Small caliber bullets, actually_, Peter thought, but he didn't dare say it. The cloth armor might protect him from a penetrating blow, but it still left a bruise.

"Gwen, I know what I'm asking of you," Peter said honestly. "But it's really okay."

"Peter, I can't even begin to tell you how _wrong_ it is that you think _this_ is _okay_!" Gwen said. She gently ran a hand up and back down his jacketed arm—as gentle as the touch was, he couldn't help but wince. "_Jesus_, Peter." Peter grabbed her hands, taking them both in his and looked her right in the eyes.

"I'll tell you. I'll tell you—but not here, not now, not _yet_," Peter said desperately. Gwen just looked at him for a moment, but finally she shook her head and sighed.

"Ok, Peter but—promise me—_promise me_—that you're going to remove yourself from whatever situation you keep getting put into that results in—in _this_," Gwen said.

"I—I can't," Peter admitted. He couldn't lie to Gwen, couldn't look right into those concerned blue eyes and tell a bald faced lie.

"Peter, _why_? I don't understand. And I don't want you _hurt_," Gwen said. She brushed back a wet lock of his hair that was dripping water down his face. "You can talk to me, Peter."

Peter in that moment wondered how this girl had so quickly wormed her way into his heart that he opened his mouth and said, "I'm Spider-Man," without any hesitation or other thoughts in his head.

There was one panicked heartbeat where Peter wondered what he'd done, wondered if he could unsay it, wondered at all the damage this could do—but before his heart could start racing, Gwen just smirked.

"Well," she said, her fingers grazing a small, faded bruise on his collarbone, "then you're not doing a very good job of it yet, are you?" Peter just stared at her. She just grinned wider. And then she was laughing, and he was laughing and then they were kissing and Peter never wanted it to stop. But then it was raining in earnest, drenching them in an instant, and they were holding hands and running and laughing through the storm until they reached the station.

"So, where do we go from here?" Peter asked. Gwen smiled.

"My house. You look like you could use an ice-pack or twelve," she replied.

"Ok," Peter agreed easily, and they passed through the turnstiles and took the train back to her home.

Peter had expected something modest, something like what he had lived in up until a week ago. He had expected an almost suburban neighborhood near the outskirts of the city. He had _not_ expected a fancy apartment building in the middle of Manhattan, complete with a doorman that raised an eyebrow at their haggard appearance (though he only had kind words for Gwen). They went up to the twentieth floor. Gwen carefully opened the door and peeked her head inside.

"Mom? Dad?" she called out. "I'm home." Only silence answered back. She opened the door wider and motioned Peter inside. "Coast is clear."

"I—what?" Peter asked as he found himself hauled inside by his jacket. "Are we—are we hiding from your parents?"

"What?" Gwen asked. "No! No! Not—yes, a little bit." She sighed as they walked into a spotless kitchen. She pulled out some ice packs from the freezer. "It's just—we're soaking wet and, well, you're not exactly…well, you're not dressed for dinner."

"I'm not—what?" Peter asked, bewildered as Gwen grabbed some medical supplies from a cabinet.

"My Dad he's just, he's really strict and I want his first impression to be a good one," Gwen explained. She led him to her room and had him sit down on her bed. She peeled off his jacket and Peter did his best to remember that Gwen was tending to his bruises.

"Oh. All right," Peter said. "I'll make sure to wear my best suit."

"And bring an umbrella," Gwen suggested. She grabbed the bottom of his shirt and gently lifted.

"What—"

"God, Peter, you're bruised _everywhere_," Gwen breathed. She tugged the shirt up further and Peter reluctantly helped her get it over his head.

"Pretty much," Peter admitted. "You were right about the whole 'not very good at it' thing." Gwen peeled off a large band-aid on his abdomen that was already slipping off from the rainwater, and she swallowed.

"Peter—"

"Just a surface cut, I swear it's not deep," Peter said. "I'm not stupid. I would—I would get help if it was really bad."

"Why do you do this to yourself, Peter?" Gwen asked.

"Because my Pops once told me that with great power comes great responsibility. I have a duty to help, because I _can_," Peter said. Gwen dabbed something at the cut and Peter hissed.

"Nope. Real reason. Out with it," Gwen demanded. Peter blinked at her. Real reason? That _was_ the real reason. He _had _to help people, like his Pops and his Dad. He had to help them because who was he if he didn't? He was Peter Parker, the pushover science geek, or Peter Stark, (apparently) party boy and perpetual slacker. But Spider-Man was so much more than that, so much better than that. He was everything he'd ever wanted to be when he was swinging through the air, saving people.

"I do it because I feel more myself than I ever have before," Peter finally decided on. "I do it because I feel like I'm really a part of my family. I do it because I know that one day I might be able to help my parents instead of be a liability." Gwen put a new band-aid over the scratch.

"That's better," Gwen said. She gathered up his shirt and jacket. "I'm going to throw these in the dryer. You just keep those ice packs on."

Peter was grateful, later, that Gwen's parents hadn't shown up—it wouldn't have looked good, her half naked, beaten boyfriend sitting on her bed. As soon as his clothes were dry, his wounds had been cleaned properly, and the ice packs had lost their coolness, Peter left. After all, eventually someone would notice his absence. At the very least, JARVIS would be concerned. Well, as concerned as an AI could get. Peter checked his phone as he walked back to Stark Tower, and he was more than surprised to see a text.

POPS

I'm sorry I haven't called. My address is 1465 Barker St. Apartment 29B.

Stop by whenever you want, for as long as you want. I've got a room set up for you.

Peter swallowed. So, no more hotels for Pops. Had Dad served him divorce papers? Or was he just banking on this being a permanent separation? Either way, Peter didn't like it. What had happened to their perfect little family in the last couple of weeks? How did things go so sour so quickly?

Well, the answer to that was easy, Peter supposed. The rot had set in long ago, and only now was the wood finally breaking, the whole structure coming down. But how had he never seen it? _That_ was the hard question.

Peter took the elevator up to the penthouse and walked through the door.

"Oh, hey Dad," Peter said, pleasantly surprised by the sight of the back of his Dad's head. He'd finally surfaced from the lab, and he wasn't out saving the world or anything either, so he was sitting on the couch, watching—well, nothing. Peter noted with equal surprise that the television wasn't on. His Dad's music, always obtrusively loud if he was listening, wasn't playing. As he got closer, he didn't see any mechanical parts on the coffee table, no plans or designs either. "Dad?"

"JARVIS said you were out," Dad said flatly. Something about him sounded…off.

"I was. And then I came back. Because we live here now," Peter said cautiously. He approached the couch so he could see better, and then Peter realized what was off. He had a glass of bourbon in his hand, the rest of the bottle on the floor, nearly empty. "You…are you ok, Dad?"

"JARVIS said you were out," Dad repeated. He took a long drink—so long he drained the rest of the glass. He put it on the coffee table with a loud _clunk_ when he was done.

"You said that already," Peter said.

"You should be out," Dad said. It was then that Peter got the message, loud and clear.

"You know I meant to tell you that uh, Uncle Bruce invited me for dinner. But um, since it's late already I might as well just stay the night. He was cool with that," Peter said, backing away.

"Good," Tony said, hollow. "Good."

"I'm just—getting my stuff—" Peter said, and then he scurried back to his room. He threw some clothes and necessities into his backpack before returning to the living area. His Dad was pouring another glass. "Um, maybe you should slow—"

Tony's gaze fixed on Peter's. Peter swallowed and looked away.

"—uh, maybe you should text me. In the morning." Peter didn't wait for a reply. He high tailed it out of the apartment. He knew only three things: one, that his Dad was already very drunk, two, that he was angry, and three, that those things did not make for a good combination in any person, but probably least of all one Tony Stark. He'd never seen his Dad drunk, but he'd seen him angry plenty and he didn't want to stick around to see the two combined.

Peter made his way back down to the ground floor of Stark Tower, still debating what he should do next.

Going to Pops' apartment, while very appealing, was out. If Pops knew Dad was drinking, if Pops knew that Dad had basically told Peter to leave the penthouse, if Pops knew that the deadly quiet, glassy-eyed version of Dad had scared Peter half out of his wits, Pops would have another fight with Dad. Pops and Dad would get divorced, Peter was sure of it. If they had any chance of getting back together, arguing more now was certain not to help. He couldn't go to Pops.

But he couldn't go to Uncle Bruce, either. He would tell Pops what had happened, out of some noble concern for Peter or for Pops or for Dad or some other stupid bullshit. And he'd wreck everything with his well meaning intentions. So Uncle Bruce was out.

Uncle Clint and Aunt Tasha were out for similar reasons. They'd all tell Pops what was going on—worse, Uncle Clint and Aunt Tasha were almost certain to tell _Fury_ what was going on, and Peter didn't want to think about the consequences for that.

Uncle Thor was a possibility, but he didn't trust him to stay quiet any more than Bruce, and even if he did, Peter didn't think Aunt Jane or Darcy would keep their mouths shut.

But _someone _had to take care of Dad. It just couldn't be Pops. And Peter had to stay _somewhere._

Peter sat in the darkened lobby, wondering what would happen if he just slept here for the night. The leather couch was cozy enough…but, no, plenty of people came in to work even on a Sunday. Peter would get tossed out as a hobo or something. Peter picked up his phone, hitting the dial button. There were a couple of people he could trust to handle this.

"Tony, what number are you calling from? It's eleven o'clock, you're the only one who calls me past ten," Pepper answered, sounding scornful. "I know you're having problems with Steve, but—"

"Pepper it's Peter," Peter cut in.

"Peter? Why are you calling me?" Pepper asked. Peter didn't take offense—she was genuinely puzzled. Peter had never called Pepper before. He'd never had a reason to. He had plenty of Aunts and Uncles, ones who were often less busy than Pepper, and certainly ones he was closer with.

"I—um—well—Dad's drunk. Really drunk. And he's mad. And—"

"Oh my God, Peter he didn't…he didn't yell at you or…anything, did he?" Pepper asked.

"No, but—I didn't want to stick around and find out. But I'm worried about him, I mean, I don't want him to accidentally kill himself," Peter said.

"Where are you right now, Peter?"

"Ground floor of Stark Tower. If Happy's around—I know it's late, but, if he's around could you ask him to come pick me up? I could use a ride," Peter said. He'd finally decided where to go, the one place where no one would tell Pops anything. After all, Harry didn't even know he _had_ two dads.

"Of course, Peter. Don't worry about your father, I'll handle it."

Peter wished he could breathe a sigh of relief, but he couldn't. Because none of this felt like an ending. It felt, horribly, like the start of something new.

"Pete. Peter. _Stark_." Peter opened his eyes and looked out at the world. It was still odd, waking up to a perfectly clear view when he was so used to waking up to a world with fuzzy edges. But Harry wasn't blurry at all. "Sorry to wake you up, but I think if you don't wake up now you'll have accidentally moved your sleeping pattern into a different time zone."

"What time is it?" Peter asked groggily.

"Noon," Harry replied.

"Mmmph," Peter replied, putting his face back down on the warm pillow briefly before realizing that was an awful decision. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He yawned and stretched. "Hey, thanks for letting me crash here for the night, Harry."

"Not a problem, Pete," Harry said. "Can't tell you how many times my Dad's gone on a bender and I've run off somewhere." Peter was a bit taken aback by the casual statement, but Harry didn't seem to think anything of it. He pulled a sweatshirt over his head. His hair was still damp from a shower—he'd obviously been up for a while, but Peter hadn't felt him get up.

Despite having a gigantic apartment, the Osbornes had only two bedrooms. Peter figured this said something about their opinions about having guests over, but he wasn't going to comment on it. Peter could have slept on the couch, but when Harry suggested they share his giant bed Peter wasn't going to argue.

"I guess I should get going," Peter said, almost reluctantly.

"Hey you don't have to," Harry said. "You can stick around as long as you want. I'm just going for a coffee run. We could go out later."

"No, I'm not really in the mood to go clubbing or something, Harry, but thanks," Peter said. He ripped off the blankets and got out of bed. He pulled on a shirt and started looking for his shoes. He'd tossed them off _somewhere_ around here…

"We wouldn't have to go clubbing. We could go to a movie or something. That new Batman film is out—but maybe you don't like superhero movies, I would get that," Harry said. Peter found his converse shoes half under the bed and he pulled them on.

"Nah, I went to the Batman movie Gwen yesterday," Peter said dismissively. He didn't feel like doing much of anything today, although giving Gwen a call and seeing what she was up to sounded appealing.

"Gwen?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, my…girlfriend," Peter said, hesitating only for a half a second. She knew his secret, they were obviously dating—he was _pretty_ sure he could call her his girlfriend now.

"Hey, how come you've never mentioned her?" Harry asked. Peter grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He shrugged.

"Never came up I guess. It's kind of a new thing, anyway. But I appreciate you trying to cheer me up, Harry," Peter said with a smile. "And seriously, thanks for letting me crash here."

"Yeah, no problem," Harry said. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow, Harry," Peter said with a smile. He left the room and the apartment, checking his phone on the elevator ride down.

_Eight Missed Calls_

_21 New Texts_

Peter swore. He really needed to remember to take his phone off silent.

DAD

_Sent at 9am_

Peter I am so sorry about last night. Please call me when you get this.

_Sent at 9:30am_

Peter I vaguely remember you saying you were staying with Bruce, are you at Bruce's?

_Sent at 9:45am_

Peter pick up your damn phone.

_Sent at 10am_

Bruce says you never went to his house. Peter where are you?

_Sent at 10:05am_

Ok. I called Happy. He gave me the address of the apartment complex where he dropped you off. But I am not happy.

_Sent at 10:15am_

Are you just mad at me? Is this a being mad at me thing?

_Sent at 10:18am_

I get it if you're mad at me. I shouldn't have done what I did last night.

_Sent at 10:23am_

Fuck me, who am I kidding, I've been practically ignoring you since your Pops moved out. Who am I to complain if you don't answer a few texts, a few calls?

_Sent at 10:27am_

I'm still going to complain about it though.

_Sent at 11am_

I'd really appreciate it if you answered your phone, Peter.

_Sent at 11:15am_

GPS says you're still in that apartment complex. Who do you even know in that apartment complex?

_Sent at 11:16am_

I'd know the answer to that if I hadn't been so self-absorbed lately, wouldn't I.

_Sent at 11:17am_

Does Gwen live there? 

_Sent at 11:18am_

Oh God if she does I hope you're using protection.

_Sent at 11:20am_

Seriously I want no grandchildren in the near future.

_Sent at 11:21am_

I'm not old enough to be a Grandpa.

_Sent at 11:22am_

Ok scratch that that's beyond the realm of belief by now isn't it. 

_Sent at 11:23am_

I am hoping that the sheer annoyance of your phone buzzing this frequently will get you to answer it.

_Sent at 11:25am_

Obviously this is an ineffective strategy.

_Sent at 11:30am_

Your phone is off, isn't it? Peter how DARE YOU TURN YOUR PHONE OFF ON YOUR FATHER

_Sent at 11:31am_

Rude.

Peter was torn between feeling anger, joy, indignation, and amusement. He settled for the last of them. He hailed a cab once he made it to the street, jumped inside asking to be taken to Stark Tower

I thought after the great sexplanation debacle of 2025 we agreed you would "never ever ever ever have any involvement with me (Peter) pertaining to the explanation and or discussion of sex and would leave all such matters to the commendable Captain Steve 'won't go to bed til I'm legally wed' Rogers, however so inaccurate that nickname may be, it doesn't matter because Peter doesn't want to know anyway"? I'm quoting directly, here.

DAD

Peter! What took you so long?

OUTGOING

I was asleep. You might try it sometime.

DAD

Sleeping is for wimps. And anyway there was a 'if Peter may be in danger of knocking up a girl Tony may intervene' clause somewhere in there.

OUTGOING

Liar.

DAD

Just tell me you used protection.

OUTGOING

I'm not sleeping with Gwen! I wasn't even at her apartment. I was at another friend's apartment. A MALE friend.

DAD

Even with a guy you still need protection.

OUTGOING

Are you SERIOUS right now? I'm not fucking anyone!

DAD

Peter, language. I just want to make sure you're safe.

OUTGOING

Coming from the guy who downed a whole bottle of bourbon alone last night! Don't pretend you didn't.

DAD

I'd rather have this conversation in person, Pete.

OUTGOING

And I'd rather have slept in my own bedroom last night.

There was a long pause and Peter knew Dad wasn't going to send him another text message. It _was_ a conversation better to be had in person, he was right. But Peter was _mad_. Getting accused of having unprotected sex first thing in the morning will do that to a person, especially after the night he'd had.

He arrived at the Tower relatively quickly and headed up the elevator. His Dad was waiting for him. He was standing behind the kitchen's island. Peter blinked. On top of the island was a vast array of breakfast foods. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee—were those _crumpets?_—strawberries, melon slices…of course, the pancakes looked burnt, the eggs looked runny, and the bacon was nearly black (Peter would probably eat it anyway), so it had obviously all been prepared by Dad. Peter felt his heart race in panic.

"Oh my God, Dad who died?" Peter asked, eyes wide. Dad never cooked breakfast unless something terrible had happened. It was always 'hey Peter, look I made breakfast, it's your favorite, pancakes—oh by the way I accidentally killed your hamster while you were away at camp' or 'hey Peter, look I made breakfast—sausages and scrambled eggs, the whole nine yards—by the way we Avengers all went on a horribly dangerous mission and now Uncle Clint is in critical condition and will probably die' or 'hey Peter, look I made breakfast—omelets and muffins and pancakes and cinnamon rolls and bacon—by the way we Avengers all went on a horribly dangerous mission and now your Pops is MIA, probably captured by enemy Hydra agents, and we don't know this now but we won't see him for more than six agonizing months, Merry Christmas!' Peter wasn't sure why Dad thought his cooking would be a comfort, given that it was always horrible and always accompanied by awful news, but Peter wasn't sure about many things regarding his Dad. One thing he _was_ sure about was that this was a bad sign.

"No one you know," Dad said lightly. "Sit down, Peter, I made breakfast."

"Yeah, I see that, that's kind of the part that worries me," Peter said, approaching the island.

"My cooking's not _that_ bad," Dad said indignantly.

"It's not the cooking that worries me, although I'm fairly certain I'll contract salmonella from those eggs," Peter said, sitting down on a stool at the island. "It's what comes with the cooking." Dad was silent for a moment. Peter waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he couldn't take it anymore.

"You and Pops are getting divorced, aren't you?" Peter asked bluntly. Dad looked at him for a moment.

"I won't deny that's a possibility right now, Pete," he said. "But that's not what this is about. Well. Not entirely." Dad sighed heavily, and for once it was easy for Peter to see all of his 62 years. "I fucked up, Peter. I fucked up on the team, and five people died because of it. I let my personal feelings get in the way, and now five people are dead. So I'm off the team. I've been expelled from the Avengers. Well, I expelled myself but it was only a matter of time before your Pops was forced to kick me out. And things are…things aren't looking good for me and your Pops, Peter. I won't lie to you about that. I know you're not an idiot. I know you know my ring isn't being cleaned.

"But despite all that…despite what happened yesterday, I shouldn't have gotten drunk in this house, with you living here. I shouldn't be failing you so completely right now. I know this has to be as hard on you as it is on me. But I guess that's the real Stark legacy, huh? Fathers failing their sons, failing their families. I'm going to make more of an effort to be here for you, Peter. I'm not going to promise anything, because you know I'm bad with promises, but I'm going to _try_," Dad finished.

Peter didn't know what to think. Peter didn't know what to feel. Dad had admitted he and Pops might get divorced and that just _ate_ at Peter. But overwhelming this feeling of panic was _concern_.

"You kicked yourself off the Avengers?" Peter asked quietly.

"Five people, Peter," Dad said. He wouldn't look him in the eye. "Because I lost my cool with your Pops on the field."

"But…it was one mistake," Peter protested feebly. "You won't make it again. You've saved so many people in the past—"

"This isn't a game of scales, Peter," Dad snapped. "Being a hero isn't about putting the number of people you've saved against the number of people you've killed and hoping you at least break even. Because you never will. Because it doesn't matter if it's three thousand people on the saving side and five on the killed—the five will outweigh them every time." Peter must have looked startled because Dad breathed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's ok," Peter replied. He grabbed a piece of blackened bacon. Even burnt, it tasted good. Peter chewed and Dad stared off into nothing.

"Got any plans today?" Dad asked at last, but Peter could tell that he was still very far away.

"Thought I'd call Gwen, see what she's up to. Other than that…you know. Homework and stuff," Peter said. Dad nodded.

"Good. Good. I like Gwen, she's a nice girl. But whose this 'male friend' you stayed with last night?" Dad asked. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Just a friend from school, Dad," Peter replied.

"Name? I might know him. Or his parents, anyway," Dad said.

"I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Hawthorne secrecy clauses and all that," Peter said. This time it was Dad's turn to roll his eyes.

"Fine," he huffed, "keep your old man out of the loop, see if I care." And Dad continued to whine about it for the next half-hour, but luckily he didn't press Peter on the issue. Eventually, Peter went to his room to call Gwen and do work, and Dad returned to his lab (or his 'bat cave' as Peter decided to call it, earning him a swat over the ears).

Peter threw himself on his bed and grabbed his phone. There were a couple of other people that he had to call, but the other two people he could think of, he really didn't _want_ to call. He didn't really know what to say. So he hit the speed dial for Gwen and pushed them from his mind.

"Hey Peter," Gwen answered cheerfully.

"Hey Gwen," Peter said, a smile curling up the edges of his lips despite his morning. "What are you doing today?"

"I wish I could say I was free, Peter, but I kind of got called to an emergency babysitting job," Gwen replied. "Parents got called to some urgent meeting and they've been gone all morning. I'm supposed to get off at six, though."

"Do you want to do something? Together, I mean?" Peter asked, then kicked himself for sounding like an idiot.

"Sure," Gwen answered anyway. "I'll text you the address of where I'm babysitting—pick me up at six?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds…yeah," Peter said. Gwen giggled.

"Ok, Peter. Bye then, I've got to make sure cookie dough doesn't get on every surface in the house," she said, and then she hung up the phone.

Peter had a few hours to kill, so he finished his homework, figuring any more black marks against his record would inevitably end up with a phone call to his Dad—maybe one that would actually reach him this time. But his homework didn't take that long so, between then and the time he had to pick up Gwen, he dawned his Spider-Man suit and took off through the city, stopping crime when he found it but otherwise just enjoying the feeling of soaring through the air and clinging to the sides of skyscrapers.

Well, that was until a crazy old man in some kind of giant vulture costume decided to rob a bank and cause a whole heap of trouble for Peter, sealing him in a water tank through which the only exit was a sewer. When he finally emerged from the sewer, defeated and stinking, Peter hurried back to Stark tower for a shower or six before his date with Gwen. He'd have to take care of the vulture later, or let the Avengers handle the weirdo.

He barely glanced at the address of the text before he jumped in the car and rattled it off to Happy.

"Visiting your Aunt and Uncle, Peter?" Happy asked. Peter blinked. He reread the address.

"Uh, not intentionally. Picking up Gwen for a date," Peter said. "She said she was babysitting. Oh. Oh, God, I hope they haven't covered her in finger paint or tied her to a chair or cut her hair or attacked her with nerf arrows—"

"I'm sure she's doing fine for herself, Peter," Happy said with a laugh. It wasn't long before they were pulling up outside of the Romanoff-Barton household. Clint's car was in the driveway. Peter knocked on the door—Natasha answered.

"Peter? What are you doing here?" Aunt Nat asked.

"Weirdly, picking up my girlfriend," Peter replied.

"You—_you're_ the boyfriend?" she asked. "Oh, fantastic!" And then Peter felt himself being bodily pulled through the front door. Nat shut it behind them and ushered him into the living room. Clint was talking to Gwen while the terror twins innocently played Monopoly on the floor. _Monopoly_? Oh, they _had_ to be up to something. They grinned when they saw him.

"Peter!" they cried. Ana instantly attached herself to his leg, and Will pulled on his arm, trying to show him a lego set he'd finished.

"Peter?" Clint asked.

"The boyfriend," Nat said, as if by way of introduction. It was a truly absurd feeling. "Isn't this great? Gwen, Peter, if you wouldn't mind, we're _really_ in a bind here—could you both just stay and watch Ana and Will? We'll make it up to you."

"No, no, no, no, no," Peter answered staunchly. "Not again. _Never_ again. We tried this once, remember?"

"We'll be good, Peter!" Ana pleaded. "Please stay!"

"Pleeeeeeaaaaaaase!" Will agreed, begging.

"You've babysat Ana and Will before, too?" Gwen asked.

"Once. But I'm kind of like their unofficial older brother," Peter said disdainfully.

"It would really mean a lot to us if you could do this," Clint said. "We're running out of new agents to haze."

"And we really, _really_ need to continue our meeting," Natasha added.

"Yeah Dad told me what happened. Sort of," Peter said.

"Then you know why we really need to be at the Tri—at work right now," Clint stated, his eyes sliding only briefly to Gwen and then back to Peter.

"Of course we'll help, Mr. Barton, Ms. Romanoff," Gwen answered with a smile. Peter shot her a look of horror as the twins cheered. Ana detached herself from Peter's leg to hug Gwen's.

"Oh, fantastic," Natasha said with a sigh. "We'll be back as soon as we can be—thanks so much you two." She headed out the door. Clint ruffled Peter's hair.

"Thanks, Pete. Thanks, Gwen. Sorry to ruin your date night—we owe you one," he said.

"Yes, yes you do!" Peter called out as Clint left, shutting the door behind him. Gwen just laughed. She took his hand.

"Come on, we're playing Monopoly and I'm kicking their butts. How about we deal you in so I can crush _you_ under my boot as well?" Gwen asked.

"You're not beating us!" Will said confidently.

"Yeah, we've got a secret plan!" Ana said.

"It's not a secret if you _say_ you've got a secret," Gwen advised them. Peter just shook his head, sat down, and resolved himself to a night of Monopoly.

But hey, it was better than a night of getting finger paint tossed at him.

All in all, while it certainly hadn't been the night he'd planned, it hadn't been a terrible night, either, Peter reflected. He was curled up on the couch, Gwen in his arms. Her hair smelled like strawberries, and she had on an amazing perfume, the smell of which Peter couldn't quite place, but it was like vanilla. Peter could lie there for hours, he thought, just soaking in all that was Gwen.

"I can't believe those little monsters actually sleep," Peter whispered. On the other couch, Ana and Will had passed out, bellies full of hot chocolate. An old Disney movie, _Brave_, still played on the television.

"Oh, Peter," Gwen said with a chuckle. "You just have to know how to handle them." So Peter had discovered. He was amazed when they went through the whole game of Monopoly without any flinging of Nerf darts or finger paint or silly string, although will did throw his fake credit card at Peter's head at one point, hitting him right between the eyes with a practiced precision that Peter could only take to mean that he'd done the same to other babysitters many times before.

But every time they'd acted up, Gwen had insulted them.

"Oh, just can't take losing, can you?" Gwen had said after he'd thrown the card.

"I can so!" Will said. "And I'm not losing!"

"I hear you talk a big game but I'm not seeing anything to back it up, tough guy," Gwen said, swiping Will's card from Peter's lap.

"I've got a plan," Will insisted.

"One that _doesn't_ involve flying bits of plastic? Because that's not going to win you the game, buddy," Gwen said, matter-of-fact. "Only brains count here."

"I've got plenty of brains!" Will said. He snatched back his card.

"Prove it!" Gwen challenged.

And that was it. No Nerf bows or slingshots or guns were brought to the game. There were no surprise silly string attacks or anything of that nature. Peter couldn't really believe it. And then afterwards (once Gwen had thoroughly trounced them all), Gwen and Peter had made hot chocolate and put on a movie, and Peter was _certain_ they would start misbehaving, but nothing of the sort happened.

"You're amazing," Peter said. "I've never seen them so…normal." Gwen just chuckled again. Peter just breathed deeply and relaxed. His fingers ghosted back and forth over her arm. Her skin was so soft, and she was so warm, and she smelled so nice. He brushed back her hair so her neck was exposed, and then he couldn't resist. He kissed her neck gently, and Gwen sighed. A thrill went through him at the sound, so he kissed her neck again, and again, slowly trailing up towards her mouth. She moved to help him, until she was on her back and he was half leaning over her, and her lips were on his, and they were kissing more heatedly than they ever had before. It was then that Peter's pants suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. He felt his face get a little pink but he hoped she wouldn't notice. After a few minutes more of this Gwen finally groaned softly.

"If Ana and Will weren't on the other couch…" she trailed off, but then she sighed and sat up, and Peter had no choice but to follow her lead. Hoping against hope that she wouldn't notice the bulge in his pants, and wondering just what exactly she had been about to say. Just then a door creaked open.

"We're home!" Natasha called out quietly, and instantly there was about three feet of space between Peter and Gwen. Clint followed in behind her and they entered the living room.

"Wow, you got them to sleep and everything? Impressive," Clint whispered. Gently he picked up Ana, careful not to disturb her sleep. "Thanks for your help tonight."

"No problem," Gwen replied, getting up off the couch.

"I'll call Happy, he can drop us both off at home," Peter offered, getting out his cell. Gwen smiled. Clint and Natasha took their children upstairs and said goodnight. It didn't take long for Happy to show up, and Happy was more than happy to drive Gwen home as well as Peter.

When they felt the car stop, Gwen gave Peter a long, lingering kiss that spread a warmth all the way down to the tips of his toes. She smiled as she pulled away.

"Goodnight Peter Parker," she said.

"G'night," Peter said in a bit of a daze. She got out of the car and Peter watched her walk away. Happy chuckled.

"You're oozing puppy love out your ears, Peter," he said, but Peter didn't care.

Despite all the terrible things happening to his family, Peter still felt like he was walking on air when he went into school the next morning. But his chipper attitude was hardly appreciated.

"God, Peter, did you get laid last night or something?" Harry asked irritably halfway through the day. Harry's eyes were bloodshot again. He sipped at a cup of espresso he'd had Bernard bring him for lunch.

"No, just…had a good time, is all," Peter said with a smile. Harry just harrumphed. "What are you so grumpy about?"

"I'm hung over, can't you tell?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, I got that, but you seem especially irritable," Peter remarked. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was Peter never found out, as just at that moment the rest of their friends arrived at the lunch table, jabbering on about the latest school gossip.

That afternoon when Peter got home, he briefly said hello to his Dad before suiting up and going on, what Peter was now starting to call, 'patrol'. He really wanted to find that crazy vulture guy again and, frankly, get revenge by lassoing him with web and leaving him for the cops.

While Peter _did_ indeed find the Vulture again (robbing a jewelry store in broad daylight), he _didn't _succeed in his quest as at a crucial moment he was distracted by a voice suddenly in his ear.

"_Avengers Assemble. The Captain is online,"_ Peter realized with a start that it was the Comm system. He hadn't realized he'd turned the function on.

"_Widow is online and copies."_

"_Hawkeye is online and copies."_

"_Thor is online and copies."_

"_We've got a situation at Central Park," _Pops said.

"_Goblin again?"_ Clint asked.

"_No, I think it's Loki. The statues are coming to life—well sort of—they're not alive when you're looking it's when you look away they start moving,"_ Pops said.

"_Well, what are they doing when they move_?" Natasha asked.

"_Mainly just scaring the bejesus out of folk, but one snapped somebody's neck so—"_

"_Right, operation smash the statues," _Clint said.

"_No, contain them if you can, some of these are priceless old statues—"_

"_Contain them? With what? How? My magical forcefield?" _Clint scoffed. "_I don't have an arrow for that_."

"_Tie them up, if you can—"_

"_With what? How? I don't think rope's going to hold!"_

No, Peter doubted that rope would hold up if a metal or stone statue tried to break free. But Peter knew exactly what _would_ hold up under pressure.

Central Park wasn't far. It didn't take him long to swing all the way over there. From above, the scene looked crazy. There were people running around and screaming, but nothing was moving. A big, stone arm was closed around Natasha's arm. Peter swung into the scene, and then turned on one small modification he'd made to his costume—a voice changer. He then proceeded to coat the nearest statue with web, trapping it effectively. His web was strong enough to resist the penetration of a bullet—it _should _be strong enough to hold a statue.

"Spider-Man! Think you can round these guys up?" Pops asked.

"Just keep looking at 'em and it's not a problem," Spider-Man answered.

"_Hear that? Everybody cover Spidey_," Pops spoke over the comm.. Peter wasn't sure he liked his new nickname. Nevertheless, it felt beyond amazing to be there, doing his thing, with all of the Avengers (well, minus Dad) at his back. With him on the job, the whole mess was cleaned up in less than a half an hour.

Well, the statues were contained, anyway. The matter of dealing with Loki and actually fixing the statues so they weren't scary as shit and slightly homicidal was another matter entirely. One to be left mainly to Thor, Peter guessed. He felt a big hand on his shoulder.

"Good work, Spider-Man," Pops said warmly. "You really came through for us today. And I see you've finally found your voice."

"My snark was on the fritz last time, it was too embarrassing to speak without it," Spider-Man said. Pops chuckled.

"I know a couple people who would agree with you about that," he said. "You ready to have that talk with me yet about the Avengers Initiative?"

"Not just yet, Captain," Spider-Man spoke. There were no secrets in S.H.I.E.L.D. If ever he took up the Avengers banner, they would first have to know his identity. And Peter just wasn't ready for that yet. "But soon." Pops—_Captain America_—nodded.

"I look forward to the day, Spider-Man," he said. He gave an informal salute and then walked off, shouting instructions to the rest of the crew. Peter shot a web to the nearest building and swung on home, tired but proud. He changed quickly and quietly in his room. He took a shower and then headed out to the kitchen to get something for dinner, feeling pretty good about himself. Things were good with Gwen. He was helping out the Avengers without having to _be_ one, and therefore avoiding what his Dads would have to say about it, and he was back on track at school, where he had _friends_ for once in his life. The things out of his control—Pops and Dad fighting, Dad quitting the Avengers and all that—still felt awful but overall Peter felt better than he had since he got his spider powers. That was, until—

"PETER JAMES STARK-ROGERS WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" Dad yelled, storming up from the lab. He held his phone in his hand, and it took Peter a second to understand, but then a voice started saying,

"_Hello, Mr. Stark, this is Kathy Manson from the Hawthorn Academy…"_

Oh, shit.


	9. Chapter 9

"Dad, I'm sorry—"

"So I get this call and this woman I've never met is _heavily implying_ that I'm an _unfit father_ because obviously I didn't bother to listen to my messages—"

"Dad, I—"

"—or at least got my secretary to listen to them for me like most of the other father's at that school—"

"Dad, just listen—"

"—but I never _got_ any message like that, so here I am yelling at some low-rung administrator for not sending me a call and searching through the traces of deleted files when _low and behold_ I find a message—"

"Dad, _please—"_

"—making _me_ the bad guy here with a _delinquent son_, which, really, is the last thing I would have ever expected from you, Peter—not doing homework? Sure, it happens, but why would you _skip your detention_? But that's not even what makes me _mad_, what makes me mad is that you _deliberately hid it from me_. You've never lied to me. You know you don't need to lie to me. You know I don't lie to you, so why did you do it?"

Peter looked at his shoes, unable to meet his dad's gaze, unwilling to see the hurt there. He didn't speak for a long moment, though he could still feel his dad's stare.

"I…I panicked," Peter said. "I didn't mean to miss detention, and I didn't know what to do when I got home, and there was this message, and I just wanted it to go away so I told JARVIS to get rid of it." Peter finally met his father's eyes, but then he wished that he hadn't, because then he felt like he couldn't look away.

"What do you _mean_ you didn't mean to miss detention?" dad asked. Peter swallowed.

"I—you know, you weren't talking to me, and Pops wasn't either. Neither of you were around, and I was at a new school, and everything was weird, but I finally had _friends_, Dad, and I got invited to a party on Friday and I couldn't just say _no_, I had _friends_, Dad. _Friends_. For _once _in my _life_. So I went to the party. And I got drunk. And when I woke up the next morning, detention was already over, and when I got home you weren't here but that _message_ was and I just…I just panicked, Dad. I didn't want to tell you what happened, because I knew you'd yell, and I knew you'd be _disappointed_ in me and I just couldn't _handle _it," Peter said, and by the end he was shouting, too. "I mean I was _kidnapped_ last Sunday for _God's sake_ can you cut me a break for _once in my life_? My parents are separating, some crazy green villain is after me, I had to switch schools, leave my home, and I've done most of it with a smile so _I'm sorry_ if I had _one outburst_ of _not doing my homework_, if I hid the truth, if I went out and was a _fucking teenager_ for _once_, _I'm sorry_, okay?" By this point, though Peter hadn't really noticed, there were tears on his cheeks, and his Dad slowly came towards him and wrapped him in a hug that Peter fiercely returned. "_I'm sorry, Dad, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_." Peter repeated over and over again.

"Shh, Peter," his dad said soothingly, one hand running gently through his wild brown hair, pressing Peter gently into his shoulder as he cried. "God, Pete, don't ever, _ever_ let me get that far away from you again, ok? Just, smack me if I'm getting too self-absorbed." Peter let out a watery chuckle at that.

They stood there like that for a minute, both reveling in the contact they hadn't had for what felt like weeks, until dad finally ruffled Peter's hair and let him go, courteously turning so that Peter could discreetly wipe the tears from his cheeks.

"We'll just let this go then, yeah? Ms. Manson says you already know your detention has been reassigned for this Saturday," Dad said.

"Yeah," Peter replied. "I'll be there, I promise. And I won't get detention again."

"Please don't," Dad said. He turned back to look at Peter very seriously. "And—Peter I know it's hard to say no to friends, and you know what? I'm not going to tell you to say no. I think you deserve to have a good time every now and then. Just…be careful. Be smart about it, like I know you can be. And don't ever drink alone."

"Ok, Dad," Peter agreed. Dad nodded once, and that was that. Dad ordered Indian food, and they caught up. Well, they _mostly_ caught up. Peter, despite their little heart to heart, wasn't exactly about to bring up the arachnid conversation. But, Peter thought, maybe one day soon he would.

Tuesday brought an ordinary day of school, and another outing with the Avengers, only _this _time, _they_ were there to help _him_ as he tried, yet again, to take down the Vulture. They didn't end up getting him until Wednesday evening, after which point Peter was covered in little bruises and utterly exhausted, but, after a quick shower, he headed out to have dinner with Bruce, who had invited him the day before.

He wandered into the apartment, dragging his feet. Bruce, who hadn't been called in for the mission, was perfectly cheerful and totally fine. Peter was grateful when he turned on Doctor Who and stopped chatting because, at this point, Peter couldn't keep up with the conversation. He nearly fell asleep on Bruce's couch.

"Peter? Pete?" Bruce asked after Peter had his eyes closed for a prolonged period of time. Peter jolted awake, his foot hitting the coffee table and sending all the Chinese food cartons flying. Instinctively, Peter jumped up to catch them. Which he did—he caught all six of them in his arms. And then he realized Uncle Bruce was staring at him. Peter stared back.

_What do I do? What do I do? Instincts, Peter, what's your instinct?_

Peter let go and dropped all of the Chinese food he'd saved onto the floor.

_Instincts bad._

Bruce stared. Peter stared back, wide-eyed. Bruce cleared his throat.

"I'll get the mop," he said, rising from his spot on the couch.

"Uncle Bruce, I'm so sorry—" Peter started, but Bruce just held his hand up.

"Peter, it's fine, it was an accident," he said calmly. He brought out a mop and Peter helped him pick up the remains of their dinner. By the time they were done, all Peter wanted to do was sink back onto that couch and go to sleep. Bruce sat down and Peter sat beside him. They just let Doctor Who play for a minute, but after a while Bruce looked at Peter, and he muted the television.

"All right Peter, do you want to tell me why the clumsiest kid I know is suddenly able to catch a bunch of flying Chinese food cartons like a juggler on steroids?" Bruce asked. Peter sank into the couch. He just shrugged. Bruce sighed. "Come on, Peter, we both know that isn't normal. I'm worried about you, what's going on?" Peter shrugged again. "Is it steroids?" Peter shook his head. "Do you have the X gene?" Peter shook his head again. Uncle Bruce looked puzzled for a moment, and then it was like a realization had dawned on him. Peter felt a pit in his stomach. "Peter, take off your jacket." Peter shook his head. "Peter." Reluctantly, and slowly, _ever_ so slowly, Peter removed his heavy jacket. He was only wearing a t-shirt underneath yet again, and so the bruises he'd incurred over the past three days of fighting with the Avengers were obvious.

Uncle Bruce was quiet for a moment, pensive. He got up and returned with ice packs, which he handed to Peter before sitting back down.

"When did it happen?" he asked.

"Just a couple weeks ago. Still getting used to it," Peter murmured. Then he looked up at Bruce, eyes wide with fear. "Please, Uncle Bruce, _please_ don't tell my dads—"

"I won't say anything, Peter, but I really think _you_ should," Bruce said. "How did it happen?"

"I'm not really sure," Peter admitted. "A radioactive spider bit me, I think, and then I got sick and then—well, then _this_."

"The allergic reaction," Bruce muttered, mostly to himself, Peter suspected. Bruce took in a deep breath, then let it go. "Don't make me keep this secret forever, Peter."

"I won't," Peter mumbled. "I just…there hasn't been a right time with…with Dad and Pops…" Bruce put a hand on Peter's shoulder.

"I understand, Peter. And if you ever need someone to talk to, _ever_, you know you can count on me, right?" Bruce asked. Peter nodded, and Bruce let go. "Good." He turned Doctor Who back on. Peter smiled. He knew there was a reason Uncle Bruce was his favorite. He settled back in and he and Uncle Bruce finished the episode in contented silence.

On Thursday, nothing earth shattering happened and Peter decided to take a break from patrol to study and to have an actual conversation with Gwen over the phone. Pops invited him over to stay for the weekend. Peter felt a small twinge of dread, but he sucked it up and sent back a quick text to let him know he'd be there.

On Friday, Harry tried to get him to go clubbing that night, but Peter turned him down, insisting that he had family things to attend to. Harry didn't seem to understand. Peter felt true pity for his friend.

After going on patrol for a bit, Peter headed to his Pop's apartment. Like Pops, the building was old—it had probably been new in his era. It was also, predictably, in Brooklyn. Peter wondered if it was even possible to prize Pops from the area. Peter headed up to the fourth floor until he reached the right door. He took a deep breath, and then he knocked. The door practically flew open, and for a moment Peter was afraid his Pops was going to tear it right off its hinges.

"Peter!" Pops said as he opened the door. The look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face made Peter smile.

"Hey Pops. Uh, long time, no see?" he said. Pops just grabbed him in an enormous hug and didn't let go. It was a little painful, what with Peter's constant injuries, but Peter didn't mind, not really.

"How on earth did I deal with sending you to Boy Scout camp? I can't handle being without you for two weeks," Pops said, finally letting go. Peter came in through the door, shutting it behind him, and set his stuff down. As _he _remembered it, Pops _didn't_ deal with sending him to Boy Scout camp—Dad had told him he'd pouted and moped around the house the whole time and couldn't be cheered up even when Dad had offered to watch 40s musicals with him.

"College might be an issue, then," Peter said with a small grin.

"Oh, don't mention that right now, I can't handle it," Pops said. "How have you been? How's your new school? Have you made any new friends? Of course you have, who are they? What are they like? Are your teachers ok? Did you join any clubs? Have you started your college applications yet? Because—"

"POPS, ok, wow, slow down," Peter said, laughing. He'd thought, in that brief week without any contact, that maybe Pops just didn't care. Now he realized he had been ridiculous. "And uh, fine, fine, yes, Harry, mainly but some of the other kids are cool too, and Harry's nice, uh teacher's are fine I guess, no I didn't join any clubs—I'm not actually sure Hawthorne has clubs… And uh, no not yet but I'm getting to it. Also, I'm starving, is there anything to eat?"

"Yes, there's plenty to eat—let me guess, you've been living off of pizza and pudding cups?" Pops asked.

"Chinese and Shwarma, too," Peter added cheerfully. Pops rolled his eyes.

"Well I made chicken parmesan—"

"_Yes_!" _Ah_, Peter thought, _real food_.

"—so why don't we just sit down to an early dinner?"

Peter was amenable to that, and Pops seemed quite content. Peter caught him up with his time at school, and told him all about his new friends (although he left out the very short-lived drinking phase, the fact that 'Harry' was 'Harry Osborn', and that most of them had substance abuse problems in one form or another already, but hey, it was the thought that counted). All in all, it was the type of dinner Peter had been waiting for since Pops had left. But…Peter couldn't stop the niggling feeling of how wrong this all was. They might have been in Brooklyn, but they weren't _home_, and more importantly, they weren't all _together_. Peter didn't even realize he was staring at his food until Pops spoke up.

"What?" Pops asked. "What's wrong? Is it burnt?"

"No, Pops, it's—it's great, really just—" Peter took a deep breath. "This is your _apartment_." Pops put down his utensils, ran a hand through his hair and took a breath of his own.

"Yeah I was wondering when this conversation would happen. I guess now is as good a time as any," Pops said reluctantly.

"This is _an apartment_," Peter said again.

"I know that," Pops said.

"Does Dad?"

"Yes." Peter paused for a moment.

"You're not wearing your ring, either."

"No, I'm not."

"Has the paperwork been served?"

"Not yet."

"But you think it will be."

"Eventually."

Peter nodded, then sat in silence, trying to process this new information. He could feel Pops' eyes on him, but he knew he wouldn't press him if he didn't want to be pressed.

"Thanks for being honest with me," Peter said finally.

"I'll never lie to you if I can help it, Peter," Pops said firmly.

"You lie to me all the time," Peter said with a laugh. "You lie more than Dad."

"What?" Pops asked, and Peter was only more amused by how affronted he sounded. "No I don't!"

"Oh, sure. 'Hey Pops, I love this, do you like this t-shirt?' '_It's…great, Peter_.' Bull, it said 'Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll' on the front, that's like, everything you stand against," Peter said, still laughing.

"I—I have nothing against Rock and Roll. Or sex. Or prescription drugs."

"Kind of missing the point, Pops," Peter said, an amused grin on his face.

"Oh, like you're one to talk '_Yeah, Dad, these eggs are delicious_', you little liar. No one could call Tony's eggs delicious. _No one_. _Dogs _leave them on the floor," Pops said.

"Oh, come _on_—" Peter said, and their bantering continued for a good part of an hour, passing from 'lying' to making fun of one another's fashion choices, to making fun of their music, to their choice of television shows, until finally they settled on a specific channel on TV, long after dinner was finished, and watched a movie. They fell asleep on the couch to the songs of _The Wizard of Oz_.

In the morning, Peter served his detention with Ms. Manson breathing down his neck. He told Pops he'd gone to work on a science project—it was good to know that excuse still worked.

Peter stayed for the weekend, and eventually they developed a routine. Peter would come over on Friday, stay until Monday morning, and then go back to Stark Tower after school. Of course, Peter wasn't always _around_ much on the weekend—sometimes he had a date night with Gwen, sometimes he was hanging out with Harry, but they got enough time together to keep them both from going crazy.

As Spider-Man, he'd picked up a new routine as well, helping the Avengers on a regular basis. He'd managed to tap into their comm. systems, so they had his signal and could buzz him when he was needed. But he wouldn't take off his mask, no matter how many times Fury or even Pops asked. He wasn't ready for that yet. And while the Avengers had certainly noticed how the Hulk had taken on a certain affection for the young arachnid, no one commented on it beyond a few jokes.

"What's your secret, Spider-Man?" Pops—the Captain—asked him with a laugh one day. "I think Thor could use it."

They'd also noticed that Spider-Man was a kid, through various means. One, Peter suspected, was his conspicuous lack of availability during school hours, but Peter figured that was unavoidable. Again, beyond a few jokes, no one seemed to look into it any further, although he knew Fury _must _be keeping tabs on him, and he did his best to avoid said tabs.

What with school, time with Gwen, time with his new friends (especially Harry), and time doing duty as Spider-Man, Peter couldn't believe how quickly the time flew. October became November. November became December. He spent Christmas Eve with Pops, and Christmas Day with Dad. He tried not to be sad that he couldn't have both days with them, tried not to be sad that they weren't all baking Christmas cookies in the kitchen with Dad trying to eat all the dough, that they didn't build a gingerbread house with Pops making one all traditional and Dad making one entirely out of tech which Pops would scold him for because it was _inedible _and obviously he'd missed the _whole point_… He tried to pretend that it was Christmas as usual, but all of them knew that it wasn't.

January became February, February became March, March became April and Peter got his official acceptance into Empire State University—on full scholarship. Gwen got in on the same terms, and Peter was thrilled that they would be going to the same school. So was Gwen. April turned into May, and Thor and Jane welcomed a baby girl into the world, and then May became early June. It had been eight months since Dad and Pops separated. They hadn't been seen together in all that time, and Peter didn't think that they had communicated at all. It showed, Peter knew, when graduation day came.

Everyone showed up. All the Avengers were there, and even Gwen had decided to come out—her own graduation was a week away. Dad sat next to Bruce, and all the way on the other end, Pops sat between Natasha and Gwen. Gwen, of course, knew who he was to Peter, but they hadn't ever properly met. Peter was happy to see that they looked to be in a pleasant conversation, at least until the ceremony started and the whole audience grew quiet. Despite having only been at the school a year, Peter was Valedictorian, and as such, found himself giving a cheesy, generic speech about growing up and moving on that he really didn't want to give, but at the end of it, all his (twenty-five) classmates cheered. Of course, the Avengers cheered the loudest.

After the ceremony was over, Peter made a beeline to his family, and every last one of them enveloped him in a hug, one by one offering congratulations.

"Picture time!" Jane declared at one point, and they all gathered in for a photo, with another parent taking it. After that, Jane demanded pictures of Peter with all of them individually. It wasn't until she'd gotten around to taking one with him and Pops and then one with him and Dad that Peter realized she'd done it so they'd avoid a family photo as it should have been, with Dad and Pops and Peter and that no one would comment on it as being odd, as being out of place.

And suddenly Peter wanted to scream with frustration. He wanted to push the two of them together until they kissed and made up. He wanted to lock them in a room and tell them not to come out until things were fixed. He wanted to throw himself on the floor and kick and punch and scream and cry and throw a good old two-year-old temper tantrum. But he couldn't. So he smiled through the rest of the pictures and pretended not to notice that Pops and Dad addressed one another as "Mr. Stark" and "Captain Rogers" when the situation required that they address one another at all. Eight months was all it had been, but eight months had turned his parents into strangers.

They had all gone out to a celebratory dinner afterwards, Tony Stark style, with themed balloons, and a cake more suited to a wedding, and a whole restaurant bought out in Peter's name. It made Peter a bit uncomfortable. Pops had rarely let Dad make such grandiose gestures, but Peter grinned and bore it, even if all he really wanted was a quiet dinner at home with both his parents and Gwen and Uncle Bruce, with a homemade cake with lumpy frosting and a cheap wax CONGRATS candle melting on the top.

Peter went to bed exhausted, emotionally drained from the strain of dancing between his estranged parents. Dad went to bed hammered. Peter pretended not to notice.

The day after that was unremarkable, and Peter began to think that this was how his life was going to go for the rest of forever. Peter despaired at the thought. Of course, if Peter had thought much about it, he would have realized that nothing stays the same forever. If he had thought much about it, he would have realized that the ticking time bomb that was his family still had yet to go off. If he had thought much about it, Peter would have realized that there were cards yet to be played. But Peter didn't think much about it, didn't _want_ to think much about it. So he didn't realize that the dam was about to break.

It was the morning two days after his graduation that Peter woke to his comm. going off.

"—lizard people all over the city—"

"—any intel?"

"—Pym's got anti-serum, deliver it to the top of—"

"—Oscorp, for certain—"

Peter fumbled for the device as he got out of bed and turned it on.

"Spider-Man is online—what's the situation?"

"Spider-Man, we need you _now_," the Captain said. "Get to 24th and Broadway, I'll be waiting—I need you to give me a lift to the top of Oscorp—it's been spewing some weird mist all morning. Pym got a sample, he's made an anti-serum, but people are already turning into lizards—"

"Sorry, _what_?" Peter asked, utterly bewildered. He was almost fully changed into his Spider-Man costume. He tugged his mask on over his face just as the Captain said,

"Just _get here_."

Peter obeyed the command, jumping out a back window of Stark Tower and swinging his way over to 24th and Broadway. Pops was easy to spot, dressed all in red and blue, and Peter had no trouble swooping down and grabbing him right out of a battle with a giant lizard.

"What the hell are those things?" Peter asked, horrified.

"People!" Cap shouted back. "Top of Oscorp, stat!" Peter swung as quickly as he could, although it was always more difficult with another person.

"If they're lizards, why aren't _we_ lizards?" Peter shouted as they soared.

"My genetic structure is too altered, probably yours is too, but we've already got one afflicted teammate, and it's only going to get worse," Cap answered. They tumbled onto the top of Oscorp, and Cap shoved a blue vial at him and pointed up a rickety metal structure. "You're the spider—I need you to climb up to the top and replace a _green_ vial with this blue one. I'll cover you." Peter nodded and grabbed the vial, heading up to the very tip-top of the tower. It might have been an _easy_ task for someone with sticky hands and feet, but it was no less _terrifying_. The structure creaked and swayed with every gentle breeze, and for all Peter was used to heights at this point, it was still unnerving.

When he was halfway up, he heard shouting from below. He looked down, and a bullet glanced off the metal beside him. Below, Cap fought off a lizard with—

"Oh, you've got to be _kidding me_," Peter muttered—the lizard had a gun which, of course, wouldn't do much to Cap with his shield, but Peter would be a fairly easy target.

"CLIMB!" Cap shouted, and Peter hopped to it double time, his Spidey-Sense kicking in always just in time for him to narrowly avoid a bullet.

"How does it even _use_ a gun with claws?" Peter wondered aloud as he made it to the top. There was some bizarre device emitting a greenish gas that Peter really didn't like the look of. Thanking his altered genetics, Peter removed the green vial and swapped it for the blue. The gas slowly began to change color, but there was still shouting from below, and Peter could see why—another lizard-man had joined the first, and Cap was having a hard time keep up.

Peter swung down from the top of the structure to the roof, delivering a powerful kick to lizard number two as he did so. The lizard roared in rage.

"Why isn't the blue stuff working?" Peter asked.

"Takes time I guess!" Cap shouted back. They fought back to back for a while, Peter mostly evading blows while Cap took them on his shield. Peter delivered a blow to the second lizard that had him sprawled out on the other side of the roof. For half a second, Peter watched the Captain fight—his Pops was truly talented, and Peter knew it wasn't entirely due to his muscles. That was, until his Spidey-sense went off. Peter turned, only to get smacked in the face with a lizard claw. Peter skidded over the side of the building and just managed to shoot off web to save himself. He swung back up on the roof in time to see the second lizard approaching Cap from behind while the first lizard attacked him from the front. The second lizard lifted its sharp, deadly tail for a blow, and Peter didn't even stop to think.

"CAP!" he yelled out, and he jumped between them.

The pain was sharp and immediate, but Peter had no choice to ignore the cut that the lizard's tail had slashed through his abdomen. He used his web to bind the lizard as best he could, though he knew he'd break free of it soon enough, cutting through with that sharp tail of his. Cap knocked lizard number one to the other side of the roof and briefly turned to Spider-Man.

"Oh, God, kid," he said, looking at him.

" 'm fine," Peter said, putting a hand to his stomach. "Can't worry right now—" But when Peter looked up, the lizards looked almost like they were…_melting_. No, not melting, just transforming, Peter realized. They were transforming back into people. The anti-serum was working. Peter sighed in relief. He felt a strong hand grab around his bicep.

"Come on, kid, we've got to get you to medical," Pops insisted.

"I'm fine, really," Peter said, but in truth he felt a bit dizzy. Suddenly he felt himself being lifted off the ground. He was three again in his mind, and Pops was carrying him from the couch, where he'd fallen asleep watching _Wall-E_ for the thousandth time, back up to his room to tuck him into bed. "I'm—"

"Yes, fine, I get it, that's why you're bleeding buckets," Cap said a bit scornfully. He started speaking into his comm.. "This is the Captain, I need a medical evac on the roof of Oscorp, stat. Spider-Man's been hit. Otherwise the serum seems to be working, the situation is under control."

"_Roger that_." Peter heard the answer through his own comm..

"Make sure you keep pressure on that, kid," Cap said. "Help should be here any minute now."

"It's cool, it's good, just a scratch is all," Peter said. Cap just grunted, but he didn't say anything else. A helicopter arrived moments later. Conveniently, Oscorp's roof had a helipad just as Stark Tower did. They were able to land and take Peter on board. Cap insisted on coming as well.

A slight design flaw in Peter's suit meant that he had to remove his entire costume for the medical team to get access to his injury, but when they mad a move to take off his mask, he grabbed it and pulled down.

"No," he said. "This stays." An exasperated nurse just sighed and busied herself with something else. Peter tried not to think about his injury as they patched him up. Cap sat and watched. He didn't say anything as they stitched Peter up and rolled white bandages around his abdomen. He didn't speak until Peter had put his Spider-Man costume back on in full. He frowned at the bloody hole in the center. He wasn't sure how he was going to fix that, just as he wasn't sure how the lizard's tail had managed to pierce the armor in the first place. He sat down and waited for the helicopter to land at the Triskelion. He knew he'd have to hoof it back to Stark Tower—there was no way he could swing with this injury. He was grateful Stark Tower was close, though he wasn't looking forward to having to scale the entire building to get back into his room.

"I'll be out of commission with this injury for a while," Peter told the Captain. Pops just looked at him, a very serious expression on his face. It was one Peter knew well, and hated. It was the same face he got whenever a mission had failed. It was the same face he got when someone died. It was the same face he'd had when he'd told Peter that he and Dad were probably getting divorced.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I'm legal," Peter said.

"But barely." Peter didn't answered. The Captain sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment, ran a hand through his hair. "Do your parents know?" Silence from Peter. "That's a no, then. I should've asked when you first started helping us, but I guess I didn't want to know. We had a hole in the team, you provided a convenient…not replacement, but…Anyway I should've asked, but I didn't. Didn't want to know if you were underage, didn't want to know if you had parents worried about where you were, didn't want to know whose door I'd be knocking on if you'd gotten yourself killed out on the field. You know we don't talk about it in the official statements, but I've got a kid about your age. I shouldn't let you fight. I think of my own kid, think _what if it was Peter_, and I can't stand the thought of him out here, so why should I let someone else's kid do it?

"Fact is, you're valuable. You're a good fighter, you've got a unique skill set, and if you are 'legal' then there are plenty of kids your age enlisting, anyway. But…I guess what I'm trying to say is, I have to let you fight. I've got no good reason to stop you and a heap of reasons why I shouldn't. But I want you to be careful. You took a blow meant for me today, and that's not something I want you doing, ok? You don't take the risky move, you play it safe, all right?"

"He could have severed your spinal cord!" Peter protested.

"And he could have disemboweled you," the Captain replied. "Nearly did. Kid, you've got every quality in a superhero we could hope for. You're even one to make the sacrifice play, to risk your life for someone else's. It's admirable. It's a good quality, one you can utilize when you're older, but right now, I want you to leave those plays to full members of the Avengers, do you understand?"

"But—"

"Listen to me as your Captain, Spider-Man. I do _not_ want you making any risky moves, all right?" Cap sighed heavily. "And if that's not enough, do it as a favor to me. Because I'd rather not knock on your parents' door and tell them to start making funeral preparations, all right?" Peter nodded, a bit grudgingly, but he nodded. Cap patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks. And you know, I'm not going to run off and tell your parents what you're doing if you take off that mask." Peter almost laughed.

"That's good…really…but uh, I think I'll leave it on, thanks," Peter said.

"All right, kid, it's your call," Cap said with a shrug.

The helicopter landed at the Triskelion, and weird as it was, Peter just left through the front door. He walked, still in his Spider-Man costume, all the way to the back of Stark Tower, taking as many back routes and alleyways as he possibly could. He scaled up the side of the building and picked a window at random before sneaking up to his room, still in costume.

He looked at the clock and groaned. It was already four o'clock, and he'd promised Gwen he'd be at her house for dinner at six. It was the big moment, the big, dreaded, 'meet-the-father' moment that Gwen had been building up in all the time they dated. There was no way he could be late. He stripped off the Spider-Man costume and showered as fast as he could, wincing whenever he made a sharp movement that tugged at his new stitches. He put on his best suit (a ridiculously expensive Armani label thing that he'd only worn once before, and that had been to graduation), tried to say goodbye to his Dad only to find him mysteriously gone, and headed out the door.

Happy drove him to Gwen's building, but even with the private ride and the lovely suit, the doorman looked at him like he was a vagrant. In all his eight months of dating Gwen, her doorman never warmed to him.

"Name," said the doorman.

"You _know_ me," Peter said, exasperated.

"_Name_," he said, more forcefully.

"Peter Parker. Or Stark. Either one—I'm here to see Gwen, we've got dinner plans—" The doorman sighed heavily.

"You're down as Stark. Go on up," he said. Peter let out a sigh of relief. That doorman could really make his life difficult when he felt like it. He took the elevator up to the Stacy's apartment and knocked on their door. He felt highly uncomfortable in this fancy suit, especially given that even tiny movements in the wrong direction pulled at his stitches. The door swung open wide, suddenly, revealing police captain Stacy. Gwen practically sprinted into view behind him, and she shot Peter an apologetic glace over her father's shoulder.

"You must be Peter," Captain Stacy said.

"Yes sir," Peter said respectfully. "You must be Captain Stacy. Gwen's told me a lot about you, sir."

"Likewise, Mr. Parker," Captain Stacy said. He held out his hand and Peter shook it. "Come in, come in." Peter was ushered inside, following behind Captain Stacy and beside Gwen.

"Parker?" Peter mouthed to Gwen.

"Sorry," Gwen mouthed back, wincing. They were led into the kitchen, where Mrs. Stacy and Gwen's younger brother were cooking dinner. Mrs. Stacy smiled when she saw Peter, for they had met several times. Mrs. Stacy was always quite sweet to him.

"Oh, Peter, hello. We're so glad you could make it for dinner tonight," she said warmly. "Dinner's not ready just yet though, you're just a tad early—I'm sure you and Gwen have some catching up to do, why don't you two run along and we'll call you when dinner's ready?"

"Sounds good, thanks Mom!" Gwen interjected quickly, pulling Peter out of the kitchen and dashing them down the hall to her room before her father could object. She quickly and quietly closed the door behind them and then sighed in relief. Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Parker?" he asked again. "Not that I mind, just…" Gwen groaned.

"I'm sorry, Peter, when we were going to go on our first date you were still Peter _Parker_ to me, and I told my parents who I was going out with and after that it just seemed _weird _to suddenly change your name and besides that—well, my Dad's not your Dad's biggest fan and I want him to _like you_, Peter," she said, all in one breath. Peter almost couldn't keep up.

"Oh, well, that's, that's sweet, Gwen, but I don't want to, you know, start off on the wrong foot with your Dad," Peter said, a bit concerned. "It's not exactly lying, being Peter Parker, it's just…"

"I know, I know, I just…" Gwen sighed and took his hands in hers. "You're important to me, Peter, and my dad is important to me too, and if two of the most important people in my life become archenemies—" Peter laughed.

"Woah, woah, Gwen, arch enemies? That escalated quickly," he said. Gwen just looked at him with worry. Peter raised an eyebrow. "Unless there's something you're not telling me?" Gwen took a deep breath, obviously psyching herself up for something, and Peter got a bit nervous. But before Gwen could say anything, her little brother, Simon, burst into the room.

"Dinner's ready in two minutes, Mom overestimated how much more time she'd need," he said. He glanced at their entwined hands and made a face. "Were you two gonna kiss?"

"Simon just _get out_," Gwen said. Simon rolled his eyes but shut the door and left, making gagging noises as he went. Gwen sighed. Peter sat down on the bed, wincing as he did so. Gwen eyed him suspiciously. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Peter asked innocently.

"That face."

"What face?"

"That _face_ you just made—did you hurt yourself?"

"Well, to be more accurate, a giant human lizard on top of Oscorp hurt me," Peter said with a grin.

"_Peter!_" Gwen said, sitting next to him "Where? What happened? Let me see it."

"It's all bandaged up, Gwen, I'm fine. S.H.I.E.L.D. took care of it," Peter said. "It's not a big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal," Gwen insisted. She lifted up his dress shirt, revealing the stark white bandages across his abdomen. Peter heard her intake of breath. "Oh, Peter, it must—it must be _huge_."

"No biggie, Gwen, I'm fine, see?" Peter said, with a smile, gently prying her hands away from his shirt.

"What happened? I've never seen you get hit that badly," Gwen said. Peter shrugged.

"I got hit. Left Pop's back unprotected, and when I saw that thing going for him I just didn't think. I jumped in front of it. But it could have been worse," Peter said. Gwen just sighed and shook her head.

"I don't think your pops would want you risking your life for his," she said finally.

"Yeah, Cap told Spider-Man as much," Peter agreed. Gwen looked at him, shocked.

"Then why do you _do it_?" she asked.

"What do you mean why do I do it? He's my Pops—if I see him in danger, I'm not just going to stand by and watch something terrible happen," Peter said, frowning a little.

"He's your _father_, _he_ should be protecting _you_—it sounds like he's trying to!" Gwen said. "Peter, I know what it's like to be left behind. I know what it feels like to wait at home, but that doesn't mean I'm going to take to the streets with a loaded gun in my hand and follow behind my dad's police car."

"It's not the same thing and you know it," Peter said flatly.

"Is it not?" Gwen asked. "How much training do you have Peter."

"That's not—"

"How often do you practice with the Avengers? Spar? Attend meetings?"

"That doesn't—"

"You might be super-powered, Peter, but in a fight against other super-powered beings how does that make you any different from me with a gun in my hand against other people with guns in their hands?" Gwen asked.

"It's—it just is," Peter said, and even _he _knew that was a lame answer. "I mean, I've been doing this for eight months now. I kind of have the hang of it."

"But then you go and get hurt like today and I just…" Gwen brushed back a lock of hair on Peter's forehead. "I worry. I worry about you, Peter, because I l—"

"Dinner's ready, kids," Mrs. Stacy said cheerfully, popping the door open. She smiled at them both. "I hope you like branzino."

"Who doesn't?" Peter asked breezily.

Peter. Peter didn't. Peter _hated_ branzino. He'd had it once, when Pops had been MIA for six months when Peter was nine. Dad had hired a chef to take care of Peter's nutritional needs, but the chef seemed a little fuzzy on what those were, considering he was used to working in five-star restaurants and not feeding kids. Peter had eaten more fancy food in that period of his life than any other, and he'd never taken Pops' cooking—or even takeout—for granted ever again. But of course, Peter didn't say any of this, and he was just glad he had some vague notion of how to _eat_ branzino as they sat down to dinner.

"So, Peter, Gwen tells us you're also going to Empire State University next year?" Captain Stacy said. Peter nodded.

"Yeah, I am. For physics. Or chemistry. Or electronic engineering—or maybe a couple or all three I really haven't decided yet," Peter said. Captain Stacy chuckled.

"All three? Funny, Parker, really," he said. Peter just blinked. He hadn't been kidding. "But you're a science man, then."

"Yeah I—yeah," Peter said lamely.

"Peter won every science fair at Midtown. Well, except this past year, obviously, since he transferred schools," Gwen interjected, throwing him a smile.

"Yes, why _did_ you transfer in your senior year, Peter? Gwen was pretty…vague about that," Captain Stacy said. Peter shot her a nervous glance.

"Well uh, it was my parents' decision, really," Peter said, stepping carefully. "We uh, we moved."

"I see," Captain Stacy said. There was a short lull in the conversation.

**"George, why don't you tell us about your day?" Mrs. Stacy asked. Peter was relieved to have the conversation diverted—but only just briefly.

"Oh yeah, dad. Did you work out that problem with the Spider-Man with S.H.I.E.L.D. yet?" Howard, Gwen's other younger brother, asked. Peter's stomach did a flip.

"No, no, not yet. He's an amateur, assaulting civilians in the dead of night, he's clumsy, he leaves clues, but still dangerous," Captain Stacy said. "But S.H.I.E.L.D.'s blocking us at every turn whenever we try to bring him to justice."

"He's…assaulting people? I'm not sure. I mean, I saw that video, of him and the car thief, and I think most people would say that he was providing a public service. Like the Avengers," Peter said carefully. Gwen's eyes were as wide as saucers. Peter could tell she was holding her breath.

"Most people would be wrong," Captain Stacy replied coolly. "If I wanted a car thief off the street, he'd already be off the street."

"So…why wasn't he?" Peter asked.

"Let me illuminate you," Captain Stacy explained, "You see, the car thief was leading us to the people who run the entire operation. It's been a six month long sting, it's called strategy. I'm sure you're aware of the term, strategy? You've probably heard about that in school?"

"Yeah," Peter said. The awkwardness in the room was tangible.

"Good," Captain Stacy said with a nod.

"Well, obviously, he didn't know you had a plan," Peter said, unable to stop himself. Gwen had no reaction, but Peter could practically hear her groan in his head.

"You seem to know an awful lot about this case. You know something that we don't know? I mean, whose side are you on here?" Captain Stacy asked.

"Well, I'm not on anyone's side. I saw a video on the internet…"

"Oh! You saw the video on the internet. Well, then, the case is closed."

"Well, no. I'm just saying, if you watch the video, maybe if I send you a link? It looks like…it looks like he's really trying to help. I mean, he has joined up with the Avengers on some missions…" Peter trailed off. Captain Stacy scoffed.

"Yeah, sure, on the internet he's been made out to look like some kind of masked hero or something. And it's that helping with the Avengers that ties up police business. Spider-Man is a vigilante interfering with police work, not _just_ an Avenger, taking care of the supernatural cases. And if S.H.I.E.L.D. knows who this guy is, they're not giving him up. I swear their staff are cyborgs, sometimes. Wouldn't put it past Stark, anyway to build a whole army of them."***

"Iron Man isn't a cyborg," Peter said. "It's a—"

"Suit. A highly weaponized suit. For a guy claiming to be out of the weapons business, Stark sure is fond of violence," Captain Stacy said sardonically.

"Violence for the greater good, not unlike military or police violence," Peter retorted.

"Oh, I'm not saying Stark hasn't done a whole heap of good with that suit," Captain Stacy said, "I just find it ironic. And no one's seen him in the skies in eight months—you'd think if he'd decided to take some time off, he'd at least be courteous enough to lend out one of his suits, or finally hand it over to the military so good could be done with it, but no, he's just holed up in that tower of his, isn't he? Probably drinking himself into a stupor—and S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't doing a damned thing, about that, or about this whole _Spider-Man_ business—" and that was when Peter just snapped. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Ok, sir, I know Gwen hasn't told you much about me beyond the superficial," Peter said frankly, "and a lot of that is because she can't, because it's sensitive information. But, see, Tony Stark is my dad, and I can't just sit here and listen to you insult him when you have _no idea_ what's going on. Maybe I'm wrong about Spider-Man. Maybe he _is_ messing up police business. But my dad is a hero. My family's been through a hard eight months, not that the public knows that, or would care if they did. My parents are separating, my dad's—obviously—left the Avengers for personal reasons, and there's a homicidal maniac who's got it in for him who's gone after _me_ before, which is actually why I transferred schools, and really we're just waiting for him to rear his ugly head again. And my dad _has_ given S.H.I.E.L.D. one of his suits, as his replacement—they just haven't used it yet." Peter stood up. "I'm sorry if I've caused offense. That certainly wasn't my intention in coming here tonight. And Mrs. Stacy, the branzino was lovely—but I think I'd better go." Mrs. Stacy gave him a warm, if sad, smile, as Peter walked out. He didn't even look at Captain Stacy—he didn't want to know what the Captain thought of him now. Gwen followed him to the door.

"Peter, wait," Gwen said. Peter stopped when he got to the front door.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Peter asked, a little hurt. "Why didn't you just ask your dad to change the subject, or back me up?"

"Peter, you didn't give me a chance," Gwen said. "And sometimes Dad just gets like that—"

"So you'd just let him rag on my dad like that? No big deal? Let's just make wild assumptions and accusations about people?" Peter asked. He shook his head. "Look, Gwen, I should just go. You should get back to dinner."

"Peter—"

"Night, Gwen," Peter said, and he left. He was just angry. He needed time to cool off, time far away from Captain Stacy.

It was the same stuff he'd heard his whole life. Since no one ever knew Peter Parker was actually Tony Stark's son, no one ever had a problem bashing the billionaire superhero in front of him. His name was dragged through the mud because of his former alcoholism and behavior. It was speculated as to what awful things he must get up to now, outside the eye of the press. People whispered and gossiped and usually Peter just sat there. But when it was his _girlfriend's dad_, and his girlfriend just _sat there_… Peter couldn't handle it. So Peter decided it was probably just best to go home.

He called Happy, who, of course, collected him from the lobby of the apartment building quickly, and took him back to Stark Tower. Peter took the elevator up and loosened his tie, sighing. He was just going to fall into bed. Maybe he'd make a hot chocolate or something—wait, no, Gwen's favorite. He didn't want to have cocoa if she wasn't snuggled up on the couch beside him. Tea, maybe. Or soup. Something hot and comforting, and then he'd slip between the sheets and pass out early. The elevator doors opened. Peter was more than surprised to see his Dad waiting for him, his arms crossed and a murderous expression on his face.

"Uh, hi?" Peter said. "I told you I was going out—or, well, I tried, you weren't around, I told JARVIS to—"

"You. Installed. _Override codes_," Dad said. The bottom of Peter's stomach dropped out.

"Oh," Peter said. "Right."

"You installed _override codes_ on _JARVIS_. On _my_ AI. On _JARVIS!_" Dad said, snarling at the end.

"I, yeah, I did," Peter said tiredly. There was no point in denying it.

"I don't know what all you've been hiding from me Peter James Stark, but believe me _I will find out_," Dad said, his tone threatening.

"I don't want to do this tonight—" Peter started. _I had a fight with my girlfriend. Her father hates me. I had to defend you. I've got a hole in my gut and it hurts._

"Well too _fucking bad_," Dad shouted. "I thought we weren't going to do this again, the lying, the covering shit up, but obviously I was a _fucking moron_ to think that my teenage son would be _honest_ with me—"

"Dad, come on, I didn't do anything not really—"

"Oh, you didn't do anything? That's why you felt compelled to install _override codes on my AI?_ Do you know how _dangerous_ something like that could be, if they got in the wrong hands?"

"I'm the only one who knows them, no one could hack it, not even you knew about it—"

"JARVIS knows it!" Dad yelled. "JARVIS knew it well enough to give it to your Pops!"

"But, JARVIS would never put you or me or anyone in danger—"

"JARVIS IS A COMPUTER, PETER!" Dad roared. "Do you not understand what that MEANS? He's an AI, _artificial_ intelligence. He's safe, but he's not impervious, not perfect, do you have any idea what kind of _damage_ you could have caused? What damage that, for all I know, has already been done? And not to mention that, when the _hell_ did you think it was a good idea to _touch my stuff_?"

Peter flinched at that last one. Dad always considered all of his tech _theirs_, but there were certain lines Peter couldn't cross. Peter knew that. Override codes, taking _control_ of his dad's tech, well, that was _definitely_ over the line.

And that was to say nothing of the footage his dad would inevitably find that Peter had covered up. And at that thought, Peter couldn't take it anymore, just like he couldn't take it at the Stacy's. He just walked away. He walked back to his room, Dad shouting after him. He'd never really had dad properly _yelling_ at him. Pops never really approved of such 'methods' of parenting, so Dad had never gone there, even when he was really angry. But, Peter guessed Pop's opinion didn't matter much to Dad anymore. He shut and locked the door behind him (Tony threatening to make JARVIS open the door), filled a bag with his overnight stuff and his costume, and threw it over his shoulder. He walked out.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dad asked dangerously.

"I'm going out," Peter said calmly.

"No, you aren't," Dad said.

"Yes, I am," Peter said. "Stop the elevator, I'll take the stairs. Lock the doors—well I figured out how to install override codes once, I'm pretty sure I can figure it out again." Peter wasn't sure he'd ever seen his dad's face turn that particular shade of purple before. Peter opened the elevator door and walked inside.

He couldn't ask Happy to take him anywhere; inevitably, Happy would get a call from Dad and drive his butt back home. With his injury, he couldn't really swing anywhere either, so Peter took the subway out to Brooklyn and made his way up to Pops' flat. Perhaps one silver lining about his fighting with Dad was that he could take refuge with Pops instead of get chewed out by _two_ parents. Peter put his key in the lock and went into the apartment. He could hear the shower going, so he didn't bother to announce his presence—Pops wouldn't hear him, anyway. Peter sat down on the couch with a groan and dumped his stuff on the ground. He thought about going straight to bed, but he wanted to make sure Pops knew he was around first. Peter picked the remote up off the coffee table, intending to turn on the television, when he noticed a manila folder sitting out with _Stark-Rogers _as the label on the side. Curious, Peter picked it up. No one ever referred to his dads as the 'Stark-Rogers', not even people who knew that they were married. Peter flipped the file open and then wished he hadn't. Stark-Rogers wasn't referring to a name. It was referring to the people in a divorce case.

Peter flipped the file shut and put it back on the table exactly where he'd found it. He knew that this day was coming. It had been obvious ever since their separation that Dad and Pops were going to get a divorce. But seeing it so obviously on the table still made Peter feel a little ill.

There was a squeak as the shower shut off. Peter didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to think about anything—and furthermore (Peter realized, belatedly, how stupid he was) if Pops saw his injury, saw his bandages, the jig was up. And he _really_ didn't want to deal with that, not now. So quickly, silently, Peter grabbed his stuff and left the apartment.

For a minute, he just sat in the lobby, exhausted, emotionally drained, and frankly ready to burst into tears. It was too much. _Too much_. And what was he going to do when his parents found out—probably very shortly, considering that Dad was likely combing through all of JARVIS' files—that he was Spider-Man? Peter had no illusions about what would happen. They'd be _disappointed_ in him. They'd hate him for lying, hate him for sneaking around, and there wouldn't be anywhere he could go to get away from it—after all, if he stayed with Bruce, they'd find him there. He couldn't stay with Gwen, her parents hated him, and if he stayed with Harry his parents would inevitably find out just _who_ Harry was and hate him even more.

They hated each other, and now they were going to hate him, too.

Peter pulled out his phone and toyed with it, debating. Where could he go? Who could he call, who could he talk to? He skimmed through the names almost with disinterest, knowing it was a futile search, when he came upon a name and stopped.

_Rebecca Masters (518) 296-6579_

He'd been very rude to his birth mother. He'd stood her up and then not even had the courage to call her back and explain what happened. She probably hated him too, if the whole dropping him with his Dad and never contacting him until he became an adult was any indication. But then, maybe that wasn't fair. She _had_ contacted him, after all. And maybe she could forgive him if he explained. She _was_ his mother, after all. Before he could lose his nerve, he hit dial, not even knowing what he'd say.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Finally it went to message.

"_You've reached Rebecca Masters. Leave your name and number after the beep and I'll get back to you!" _The machine beeped, but Peter couldn't find his voice. After a pause, Peter finally managed to get his throat working again.

"Uh, hi," he said. "This—uh, this is Peter. You—you know the one. Um I just…I wanted to apologize. About not meeting you. I—well, it was an accident, I kind of overslept and then—I guess, I was scared? Nervous to meet you and nervous to say I'm sorry and I just thought it would be easier if we both forgot about it. And—well, I don't really know why I'm calling. But I'd—I'd love to meet you if, you know, you wanted. I'll be at George's Café tomorrow, at eleven. It's uh, it's in Brooklyn. You could, you know, show up if you wanted. I'll—uh, I'll wait. So—yeah. I uh, I don't really know what else to say so, I guess I'll just hang up n—" The machine made a clicking noise.

"I'll be there," answered a voice, his mother's voice.

"Oh, uh, I—ok," Peter said.

"I'll see you then, Peter," she said, and then hung up the phone. Peter set his phone on his knee, his heart racing a little with nerves. Well, that was one wrong righted. At least he could do _some_thing right. But it didn't help his current situation much. If everyone else was out, that left him with two options for the night: Bruce, or Harry.

Bruce would want to talk. Bruce would ask about his injury, make sure he was ok. Bruce would be well intentioned, but Peter just wanted to forget _everything. _Peter's phone buzzed. He looked down.

_1 New Message_

HARRY

Hey Pete, party at my house! You're missing out

Alcohol would probably be ill advised right now, Peter thought, but it sounded _exactly_ like what he needed. Peter hailed a taxi and headed over to Harry's apartment.

As ever, the apartment was crowded with bodies. Many of them were people Peter had become well acquainted with over the past eight months, but many more of them were complete and utter strangers. Harry beamed when he saw Peter.

"Peeeeete!" he said, slinging an arm around him. "Hey buddy, what's up?"

"Hey, Harry," Peter said with a small smile, but something felt off. He'd seen Harry buzzed, seen Harry completely drunk, completely out of control, but this was something new. He was completely and utterly shit-faced in a whole new way. "You okay?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic, Petey!" Harry said cheerfully. "Hey, grab a beer or—or somethin'." Harry reached around and snagged an entire bottle of marshmallow-flavored vodka and trust it at him "Here ya go."

"You want me to drink straight vodka from the bottle? Really Harry? I'm not sure I've reached that level of depravity yet," Peter said with a raised eyebrow and a laugh. Harry slapped Peter on the back.

"Leave the big words for school, drink!" Harry said. Peter rolled his eyes and took a tiny sip to get Harry off his back. It burned the whole way down. Even though Peter had come _intending_ to get drunk, now he was _sure_ it was a bad idea. Something was wrong.

"You sure everything's fine, Harry?" Peter asked. He would have asked it quietly, intimately, but the music above blared and sweaty bodies danced all around them like it was a club. Peter wondered vaguely how many civil disturbance warnings the Osborns incurred per month.

"God, Peter, don't be such a girl—I think that Gwen's rubbing off on you," Harry said. It was probably meant to be teasing, but Harry said it with such vitriol that Peter was taken aback for a second.

"Fine, be that way," Peter spat back. He thrust the vodka on someone else and started to head out. _Bruce's place it is_, he thought with annoyance, but a hand curled around his arm.

"No, Pete don't—I didn't mean—look, I'm sorry," Harry apologized, which surprised Peter more than his outburst. Harry wasn't one to apologize.

"Harry, I _know_ something's up," Peter said, genuinely concerned. "And I don't think you're _just_ drunk, either."

Harry just tugged on his arm, slowly leading him towards his bedroom. It was difficult to talk, after all, when there was music blasting so loud it would probably cause permanent hearing loss. When Harry opened the door to his bedroom, there were two people making out on the bed.

"Out," Peter said, shouting over the noise of the party. The pair reluctantly got up and left, and Peter shut the door behind them. They could still hear the music, could still hear the squeals and laughs and shouts, but it was bearable. Harry had gravitated towards the window. His room overlooked much of New York, just as Peter's did. It was just one large glass panel from the floor to the ceiling, with a curtain that Harry could draw or open with the push of a button. Harry stared out over the skyline.

"You ever dream of flying?" Harry asked.

"Hasn't everyone?" Peter asked.

"Not me," Harry replied. "I'm always falling, falling through the sky and I know that if I just try I could stop it, but I don't know _how_, and then I wake up just before I hit the ground." Harry seemed more sober now, so much so that Peter wondered how much of it had been an act—how much of it was ever an act. Peter walked over and stood beside him, looking out at their glorious city.

"They're just dreams, Harry. They don't mean anything," Peter said. Harry shrugged in response.

"Maybe, maybe not," he said. They stood in silence for a minute. "Did you see the news today?"

"No, why?" Peter asked.

"There were like, giant-lizard people roaming around this morning—did you not notice? Were you asleep all day?"

"Oh, no, I heard about that. But I haven't seen the news," Peter clarified. Harry shook his head.

"They were on top of Oscorp, I guess. Using one of our machines to disperse a gaseous formula into the atmosphere. And the Avengers took care of it, predictably, but now Oscorp's been implicated. Dad was on the phone all morning until he finally left once the office was cleared for use. And we don't know who did this or why or even _how_ and…He said to me this morning, he said 'I just know this is going to be one big mess he'll be cleaning up after for weeks. Just like _you're_ one big mess I've been cleaning up after for years'," Harry said. Peter didn't even know what to say to that. Harry gestured vaguely towards the party outside the door. "So you know, I figured, _why not_."

Peter was at a loss. He had no words with which to comfort his friend. He had nothing to say that would make it better, nothing even to lighten the mood.

"And hey, why aren't we out there?" Harry asked, his grin every bit as false as his image. And Peter wondered for a minute, as he followed Harry back out into the party, if this is what it had felt like to be Steve Rogers. Not his Pops, not the person Peter knew, but Steve Rogers, following around after a broken friend and not knowing how best to pick up the pieces. Because it was _awful_.

Peter watched Harry drink more, but he only had a beer, himself, and then only at Harry's unwavering insistence. He danced and pretended to enjoy himself, but really he was just keeping an eye out for Harry. If he'd had his way, he would've passed out hours ago. Now his abdomen hurt from the dancing, his head was pounding from the music and the alcohol. It wasn't until Peter saw Harry stumbling while he danced, tripping over his own two feet that Peter finally put an end to it.

"Ok, I think that's enough, Harry," Peter said tiredly. He draped one of Harry's arms over his shoulder, taking some of his weight.

"No, s'not," Harry said. "Doooooon't…" But Peter was already guiding him away from the party, back to his room. Peter dumped him on his bed. "Spoilsport. Petey the Party Pooper."

"Oh, God, I hope you don't remember that one tomorrow," Peter said, rolling his eyes. "Now go to sleep, Harry. Hope you don't care that I'm staying over."

"Aw, nah, you can…always…I like you…here…" Harry said.

"Good," Peter said, flopping onto the other half of the bed. He closed his eyes, ecstatic to finally be going to sleep, but suddenly there was a weight on top of him and a soft pressure on his lips. Peter's eyes flew open, and no, he wasn't dreaming—Harry _had_ just climbed on top of him and started making out with him. For a second, Peter was too shocked to do anything. About a thousand thoughts ran through his head in half a second—_Harry's gay? Or bi? Or something? Harry likes me like that? How did I not see this? How did I not see _any _of this? I should push him off—will that hurt his feelings? Will he remember this tomorrow? God, even _I _don't want to remember this tomorrow—oh shit he's still on me—does this count as cheating? _But he was promptly brought back to earth when he felt a hand roaming between his thighs. Peter yelped, and the noise was swallowed by Harry's mouth. He jumped a bit, scrambling into a sitting position and pushing Harry off as gently as he could.

"Harry, _what the hell_?" Peter asked, unable to formulate any other response.

"Like you," was all Harry said, with a drunken smile, before he came at Peter's mouth again. Peter held him off.

"Yeah, got that," Peter said. "I—Harry, I'm pretty sure I'm not gay or bi or anything. You're an awesome friend—but even if I _was_ bi, I've got a _girlfriend_, Harry, and I love her." It was something he'd not even told Gwen, but there it was, a fact, plain as day. And Peter realized that no matter how upset with her he'd gotten, that fact wasn't going to change. Peter extracted himself from beneath Harry, trying not to see the hurt on his best friend's face. "You—you should get some sleep, Harry. You're not yourself right now." Peter made his way to the door.

"You don't have t'go," Harry mumbled.

"Yeah, I do, Harry," Peter said. "I'll—look, text me in the morning, ok? Let me know you're ok when you're sober." Peter, feeling like the shittiest friend in the world, left, feeling miserable. He grabbed his stuff and for the second time that night—or was it morning, now?—took a cab to somewhere else, somewhere he felt compelled to be, somewhere he needed to be.

He couldn't just walk in the front door—not now, maybe not ever again, who knew—but Peter knew where he needed to be. So when the taxi let him out, Peter went around to the back of the building and scaled the wall. He dropped onto the fire escape when he reached the window to Gwen's room. He knocked.

It took a minute, but eventually a light came on, and a startled Gwen dressed in pajamas came and opened up the window.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I shouldn't have been mad at you. I shouldn't make you choose between your Dad and me. I probably shouldn't have started a fight. I ruined the whole evening and I _suck_."

"Peter, it's four in the morning," Gwen said, baffled.

"I know, and I'm sorry for that too. But I realized something today—I realized that I love you, and you shouldn't ever go to bed angry at the people you love, and you shouldn't let _them_ go to bed angry at _you_, either," Peter said.

"I love you too," Gwen said, but she still just looked confused. "I told you it's 4 AM, right?"

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry, I should just go—"

"No, Peter, I'm just—what are you doing up? Why are you…you know, wandering the city in a suit at 4 AM?" Gwen asked.

"Oh—I—well, I went home but Dad was mad at me so I went to my pops' apartment, but then I found divorce papers on the coffee table and I didn't really want to stay there either so I went to Harry's, and there was a party, and Harry got really drunk when it was time to sleep and—uh, well, he tried to make-out with me, which was really awkward, and then I didn't think it was a good idea to sleep there so—anyway I guess I'm headed to my Uncle Bruce's apartment now so I can sleep, but I just—I just wanted to tell you I love you first," Peter said.

"Peter, get inside," Gwen said, rolling her eyes.

"What?"

"It's cold outside, you've been running around all day, I'm not going to let you run off to some other part of the city—get inside," she said, and when he didn't move, she grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged. Peter half-followed, half-stumbled inside. Gwen shut the window. She just shook her head. "You're an idiot. Sometimes I don't know why I put up with you, Peter." And then she kissed him. It was a soft, gentle, _reassuring_ kiss.

And for the first time all day, Peter relaxed. He relaxed into the kiss and just let Gwen lead him to her bed. And she erased it all. Not like alcohol, where everything was forgotten, suppressed, only to be brought back up like the vomit that would inevitably follow as well. Not like sleep, where everything waited for him the moment he awoke, and maybe even in dreams and nightmares. She erased it all and _replaced_ _it_ with Gwen. Everything was Gwen, and there was nothing else. Nothing but love, and Gwen.

Morning came too soon for Peter. He wanted nothing but to lie in bed with Gwen all day, but two urgent matters came to their attention—one: that her parents would, if she stayed abed too long, eventually come into her room to make sure she was alive, and two: that Peter _did_ have to meet his mother.

"Can't you wall-crawl down?" Gwen asked in a hushed whisper. Peter shook his head.

"Not in these clothes," he replied, equally quiet. He straightened his tie and smoothed some rumples in his jacket. "But I can't show up to meet my mother as Spider-Man." And they were pressed for time. Peter couldn't sling his way across the city, after all.

"But you've got it on underneath," Gwen pointed out.

"It's Saturday. Saturdays are cursed. I haven't had a Spider-Man free Saturday yet. Still can't show up in it."

***"Hey Gwen, do you want some chocolate chip pancakes?" Peter and Gwen both froze at the sound of the Captain's voice. Peter ducked under the bed and Gwen went to the door. She opened it up and yelled back,

"No, Dad, I do not want chocolate chip pancakes! Honestly, I'm eighteen years old!"

"Okay, I just thought I remembered somebody saying last week that her fantasy was to live in a chocolate house," Captain Stacy replied. Peter could practically hear his raised eyebrows.

"Well that's impractical!" Gwen said indignantly, and shut the door. Then she thought better of it and opened the door again. "And fattening!" She slammed the door. And let out a sigh. When she caught Peter's eye, he mouthed,

"_Chocolate house?"_ Gwen rolled her eyes, then turned back around and opened the door a crack again.

"Sorry, dad," Gwen said, calmer now.

"It's good," Captain Stacy said, sounding perplexed.

"I just, I can't um…have any chocolate right now, because I'm working…I'm doing this…I have to…I have cramps," Gwen finished.

"Oh."

"I feel kind of pukey and just sort of, I don't know, emotional," Gwen hurried to add.

"Okay. Good. Good," Captain Stacy said. Peter could feel the awkward and winced.

"Like, I keep crying. It's brutal. You don't wanna know, trust me. It's like, bad!"

"I got it," Captain Stacy replied, sounding mortified.

"Thanks, daddy," Gwen said.

"All right," Captain Stacy said, and Gwen shut the door for good.***

"How did he fall for that?" Peter asked, still whispering.

"Bring up woman stuff and every guy goes running," Gwen replied. "Don't tell me you weren't cringing under there, Peter Stark."

"Only a little," Peter said defensively, but he grinned. "Ok, so the real question is, how do I get out of here?"

The answer to that was, of course, _very quietly_. Peter snuck out while Gwen caused a distraction, which was, as far as Peter could tell as he left, involved walking into the kitchen and declaring that she no longer wanted to go to ESU, which would probably occupy the full attention of her entire family, possibly for the entire rest of the day. Oh, Gwen. She wasn't exactly…_subtle_. But then, neither was Peter. As he left the apartment in his slightly rumpled suit, he could feel the glare of the doorman on his back. He'd have to warn Gwen about him. They might have to play keep-Captain-Stacy-away-from-the-doorman for a while.

Peter got on the subway and headed out to Brooklyn, trying to smooth out his suit as he went. George's Café was a small little place not far from Pops' apartment. Pops had taken him there before for hot chocolate (as he didn't exactly approve of Peter's copious use of coffee) on several occasions. Peter figured he liked the place because it a) wasn't a chain and b) always played really old music and was decorated almost entirely with original WWII propaganda posters and other paraphernalia—there was even a Cap poster in the corner. Pops had mentioned something about knowing George, but when Peter had asked the staff they'd said George was long, long dead. Peter figured George must have been from _before_, which Pops never talked about, so he dropped the subject.

Peter had grown to really like the cozy little place, and he'd done his homework there a few times. He liked the staff. He felt safe there, so he figured it was as good a place as any to meet his mother for the first time. He approached the street, peering at the café from a distance. It was a Saturday, so the café wasn't as busy as usual, but there were a few patrons inside, and three at the little tables outside. A man with red hair and hipster glasses, a young blonde woman Peter had seen there before, and a slightly older woman with dark, curly hair who sat at a table for two with a cup of coffee and a half-eaten muffin on a plate.

Maybe, Peter thought, _maybe_ he was early enough that she wasn't there yet. But he didn't think so. He had a good feeling that, for the first time, he was looking at his mother. She was beautiful, but Peter hadn't really expected any less. He guess that she was around Pops' age, maybe a tad bit younger. He'd never given any thought to her age before, but now he found it striking. She had been, undoubtedly, in her early or mid twenties when she'd had Peter. She'd been young—not teen mom young, but still, not much older than Peter himself was at the moment. She looked worried. Nervous. That relieved Peter a little, at least. He wouldn't be the only one. He took a deep breath and approached the café. He went right up to the woman's table.

"Um, Rebecca Masters?" Peter asked. The woman looked up.

"Peter," she said. "Oh, God, Peter, I'd hoped you wouldn't come. Go, just go, Peter, get out of here—"

Peter, for an instant, was unbelievably crushed. He hadn't expected a loving welcome, hadn't expected hugs and kisses and 'I love you's, but he certainly hadn't expected _this_. But that was before she finished.

"—It's a set-up, Peter, I'm so sorry, you have to get out of here, the Goblin—"

There was a cackle, a horrible cackle, and suddenly an explosion—Peter grabbed his mother and put his body over hers as glass shattered and flew everywhere.

"Go, Peter, run!" his mother shouted, pushing him off her as the glass settled. Peter got up, and he could see the Goblin a few feet away.

"Oh, isn't this a touching scene?" the Goblin asked in his gravelly voice. "Mother and son reunited at last. I'm sorry it's going to be a very _short_ reunion, Rebecca my dear."

"Leave her out of this!" Peter said. He ran, putting distance between them. "It's me you want, right? Well you're gonna have to catch me first!" Peter darted off, and he could hear the tell tale whirl of the glider behind him. He was lucky, really, that his spider-powers gave him super-human capabilities similar to Pops' serum, otherwise the glider would have caught him in two seconds flat. As it was he had the chance to dart in and out of the narrow streets and allies he knew the glider would have difficulty navigating. After a minute he looked behind him—no glider in sight. He ducked behind a dumpster, knowing he had only seconds. He stripped off his nice suit, revealing an entirely different kind of suit underneath. He pulled on his mask and then scaled the wall of the nearest building, getting up on the roof. His abdomen ached. Peter could tell this wasn't going to be fun. He shouted to the air,

"Hey Goblin, why don't you come pick on someone your own size?"

Then, he turned on his comm.

"Green Meanie in Brooklyn," Peter said, breathless. "I'm still recovering from an injury I could use some help, I think three or four civilians are already down—" Peter threw himself on the ground as a ninja star flew over inches from where his head had just been. It wasn't the first time that Peter thanked his lucky stars for his Spidey-sense. "I'm a block away from George's Café—" Peter rolled to the side and off the building as the Green Goblin dove at him on his glider, blades out. Peter threw out a web, catching on the building and halting his fall. Peter moaned aloud as he felt his stitches _pull_. The Goblin came at him again and Peter had no choice but to swing around to another building.

"Does anybody copy?" Peter asked desperately, leading the Goblin on a chase through the sky as civilians below gawked and screamed and ran away.

"Captain America online—Avengers, _assemble_—Spider-Man just hang in there as long as you can, keep him away from civilians, I'll be there in one minute," the Captain said.

"I think hanging in here is kind of my only option right now," Peter replied in a strained voice as he swung up onto another roof. He hid behind a water tower for a moment, catching his breath. He wasn't close to healed from the day before, he hadn't had enough sleep, and he certainly wasn't mentally prepared to be attacked this morning.

"Oh Spider-Man, come out and _play_, little Spider—or I'll go play with your mother," the Goblin threatened. For a second, Peter was surprised that the Goblin knew, but Peter swallowed his surprise and came out running. He used some web to propel him and with both feet he kicked the Goblin full in the chest, momentarily knocking him off his glider.

But of course, it was too early to be celebrating a victory. Like Pops' shield, the Goblin's glider always managed to come back to him, and within seconds he was back on it, zooming towards Peter with the blades out again. Peter had to twist away to dodge, and this time he cried out in pain—he was pretty sure those stitches were useless now. Distracted for a moment, Peter didn't have time to get out of the way as the Goblin came at him again. He managed to move out of the way of the blades, but the Goblin's body hit him full on, knocking him out of the sky. Peter threw out a web, but without any aim, it was useless. He landed on his back on top of a car, and his vision whited out with pain as the car alarm went off.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. For a moment, he panicked—was he dead? Was he about to die? It took a few seconds, but eventually Peter was able to drag in a shallow, ragged breath. But he knew he couldn't stay here, the Goblin would know he wasn't dead and would kill him. But he couldn't move. Panic flooded Peter's brain—there was a psychopath after him and he wasn't going to be able to do anything but lie there.

"Why don't you bring the party to me, Goblin?" through the pain, Peter heard his Pops. He could have cried with relief. He heard a thwack, and in the sky overhead, he saw the Captain's shield hit the Goblin in the head before returning to the Captain.

Slowly, painfully, Peter moved. He might not heal with super speed, but his super abilities did grant him a less fragility than normal humans. Anyone else, Peter knew, would have been dead from that fall. It was all he could do to get up.

He watched Cap and the Goblin fight for a minute, when he realized that it was a bit of a one-sided fight. The Goblin was still just trying to come after Peter. Cap was only a hindrance to that goal. Cap realized it too.

"Spider-Man, go, just get out of here!" the Captain ordered through the comm.

"Can't," Peter said in barely more than a whisper. "My mother—he knows—who I am—he'll kill her—have to stop him—" Peter slowly approached a wall and climbed up. As the Captain and the Goblin fought, Peter reached out an arm, spraying the Goblin in the face with web. The Goblin just ripped it off, not even missing a beat, and made a beeline for Peter. Peter just waited, and waited, and waited until he was almost on him, and then he just dropped to the ground and the Goblin smashed into the wall above him like something out of a cartoon.

A black van pulled up and out came Hawkeye and Black Widow. Lightning flashed from above and Thor appeared just as the Goblin extracted himself from the wall and lunged at the grounded Peter. Thor knocked him off his glider with his hammer and sent him flying back several hundred feet, but even with that blow the glider still caught him.

"What took you all so long?" the Captain joked.

"We don't all live in Brooklyn," Widow replied. "What's the Goblin's game?"

"He's after Spider-Man—and apparently he knows more than S.H.I.E.L.D. because he knows the kid's identity—and that of his mother," Captain replied as the Goblin came back around, dueling it out with Thor. Peter just sunk to the sidewalk, sitting down. He was dizzy. His head was pounding and every muscle and bone in his body cried out in pain.

"We have to catch him," Peter said into his comm. "He'll kill her—it'll be my fault—I can't—"

"We'll get him, Spider-Man," the Captain assured him. "Widow, Hawkeye, get up high, this guy's not one for the ground. Hawkeye, try to take out that glider with one of your special arrows. I'll stay on the ground and look out for the kid."

_No_, Peter wanted to say. _No_, _that won't work_. Peter knew it wouldn't work. Because the Goblin wasn't stupid. All the other Avengers had shown up. He'd tried to take a single Spider-Man out, but if Peter had the protection of the other Avengers, the Goblin would know he'd never take Spider-Man. And he'd just run away, disappear, and maybe kill Rebecca Masters in his rage. Peter forced himself to his feet and shot off web to the nearest building, pulling himself back into the air.

"Spider-Man! Where do you think you're going?" the Captain demanded.

"I'm going to end this," Peter replied. He didn't listen to the Captain's protests, to his orders to 'get back down here right now' that sounded so fatherly Peter thought for half a second he was going to use his full name. Peter flew through the air towards Thor and the Goblin, and, once he was close enough, swung in a circle around them.

"Hey Goblin! It's me you want right? I'll give you a fair chance, just you and me, come on!" Peter said, before swinging away, flying as far and fast away from the Avengers as he could. Of course, Thor could follow with relative ease, but the baffled Asgardian appeared to be waiting for orders.

The Goblin was fast, and Peter simply couldn't out-swing him. A ninja star clipped his arm, the metal somehow cutting through his suit. Peter hissed in pain. His whole body was screaming. He couldn't keep this up for long. He landed on a roof and spun out web as fast as he could, enveloping the Goblin. The Goblin fell off his glider and onto the roof. To Peter's surprise, the glider flew away. The Goblin tore out of the web, breaking free with relative ease to Peter's annoyance.

"Just you and me, huh kid?" the Goblin asked. He pressed a button on his suit and a high-pitched tone played. Peter froze, physically incapable of moving. The Goblin approached and put his hand around Peter's throat. "This is an old Stark Industries design. Temporary paralysis—so _useful_. I'll give your Daddy's company that much, they _have_ always made brilliant weapons. How fitting that I'm going to kill you with it now, that, in the end, it's really your own father that causes your death."

Peter couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

"_Iron Man_?" Peter heard out over the comm. "What are you doing—"

"PETER!" Iron Man shouted through the comm. system. "IT'S PETER, SPIDER-MAN IS PETER!"

The comm. was so loud that even the Goblin could hear it. He loosened his grip on Peter's neck for a second, so that Peter gasped in a breath, preventing him from passing out. He could feel the paralysis was slowly starting to wear off, but he still couldn't move.

"They're too late," the Goblin said quietly to Peter. "Go ahead and breathe. You're already dead. It rushes up behind you on silent wings."

Peter didn't understand what the Goblin meant, until he heard the _not so silent_ glider coming up from behind him, and Peter made the awful connection. He'd sent the glider away on purpose—and now it was coming back, blades extended, and Peter couldn't even move an inch. But then there was the sound of a loud _thud_ and suddenly, he was being pushed aside. There was a terrible slicing noise. Peter could only see in front of him—he was baffled about what had happened, until Cap picked him up, and Iron Man landed in his field of vision. Slowly regaining his mobility, Peter managed to turn his head—the Goblin was impaled on his own glider. Iron Man walked over and ripped off the Goblin's mask.

To no one's surprise except Peter's, underneath the mask was Norman Osborn.

"Don't," he said, pitifully. "Don't tell…"

"I think your identity's pretty well and told, Osborn," Iron Man said.

"Don't tell Harry," Osborn whispered, and his eyes weren't on Iron Man. "Peter, don't tell Harry…" Peter was pretty sure that Iron Man was going to blast the Goblin off the roof just for _addressing_ his son, but then the Goblin exhaled and didn't inhale again.

_Don't tell Harry_.

The Captain removed his own mask, revealing a horrified looking Pops underneath, clear blue eyes filled with nothing but terror. Iron Man lifted his own faceplate, and beneath the hero Peter's Dad looked at Spider-Man with the same fear. And slowly, gently, Pops peeled the mask off of Peter's face. Peter heard his sharp intake of breath.

"My God," Pops said, but Peter wasn't even sure he was aware he'd said it.

"Peter, I know what he used, don't struggle, just breathe as best you can, it'll wear off in a minute," Dad said.

"We need—S.H.I.E.L.D. I need a med evac three minutes ago, Spider-Man, _Peter_, has been grievously injured—"

"We're already on it, Captain," Peter heard through his own comm. He was safe. The Goblin was dead. No one was in any danger anymore. Peter breathed a sigh of relief, and then succumbed to his body's urges and promptly passed into unconsciousness.

Peter groaned. He was, for a moment, grateful that he wasn't dead, but at that same time he was very annoyed that he wasn't peacefully asleep, because everything hurt.

"Peter?" two voices asked at once. Peter's eyes fluttered open. He wasn't sure where he was—medical at the Triskelion? A normal hospital?—but he knew that he was in a bed, and his parents sat in chairs beside him. Pops was holding his hand.

"Avenger-ing is hard," Peter mumbled. His fathers breathed sighs of relief.

"You really scared us there, Peter," Pops said. "When you passed out, I thought—" Pops stopped, unable to continue and shook his head. "We're glad you're awake."

"I'm not, everything hurts," Peter complained hoarsely. Pops wordlessly held out a glass of water with a straw, and Peter took a few grateful sips.

"You're on some pain medication, but the doctors can up the dosage if you need it. Do you want us to call in a nurse?" Pops asked. Peter shook his head, but winced at the small action. Pops rolled his eyes. "Tony—"

"Already called them," Dad replied. A nurse came in a moment later, did something to his IV, and then left. Relief wasn't instant, but it was gradual, and he sat in silence with his dads until the pain became more bearable.

"I guess we—have to talk," Peter said reluctantly. Pops just rubbed his thumb in soothing circles over the back of Peter's hand.

"We don't need to now if you don't want to, Peter," he said kindly. "You need your rest."

"No I—I'd rather get it over with," Peter said. "I'm sorry. I know I should have told you, when it happened—"

"Why don't we just start there, Peter," Dad said softly. "How did this happen, and when?"

So Peter started from the beginning. He told them how he'd won Oscorp's Young Scientist award entirely unintentionally, how he'd gone to the facility to tell Norman Osborn that he couldn't accept, knowing how Dad would react if he found out. He told them how a spider got caught in a radioactive ray, how it fell and bit him on the hand, how that was the 'allergic reaction' he'd had all those months ago. He told them how he'd wanted to say something, but they were fighting, and it was just never a good time. He told them how he'd mostly joined the Avengers by accident, hearing their waves over his comm. He told them how, after a while, he was afraid to tell them the truth for having lied to them in the first place. And he watched them as he told this story, watched their faces grow grimmer and grimmer, until Peter was finally done, finishing with how he'd gone to meet Rebecca, and it had turned out to be a trap.

There was silence for a minute. Peter would have fidgeted, but it was too painful to move. Then, Pops leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"You're really not the one who should be apologizing, Peter," he said. "Get some sleep, you incredible kid."

"Not incredible," Dad disagreed, ruffling Peter's hair. "_Amazing_. We—Peter your Pops and I—God we're so sorry you felt this way, felt like you couldn't tell us about this. And we'll…we can do better."

"We haven't been much of a family these past nine months," Pops agreed. "But I think—I think we've all learned our lesson. We'll do better for you, Peter. We promise."

It wasn't their promises that moved Peter most. Their family would always have its struggles and its hardships, after all. There was nothing that could prevent that, and Peter felt as much at fault as his dads. But it was their _words_ that choked him up—because they were saying _we_. And even if things still didn't work out with them, Peter knew that in some way or another, in some bizarre shape or form, they would be a family again. And Peter, despite the pain in his ribs, could breathe easy again.

Peter made his dads promise not to make the Green Goblin's identity into public knowledge. His dads agreed, but only because Peter begged, and only because Norman Osborn's judgment had obviously been impaired by the botched super soldier serum his company had created. All the same, Peter demanded to be at the press conference, just to ensure that they didn't say anything. Dad rolled his eyes but agreed, and mere hours later Coulson wheeled Peter into the conference room.

As they always did for press conferences, the Avengers wore their best. Pops, as ever, wore his old military uniform, and he stood at the podium, ready to give the statement written out on note cards. Pops cleared his throat and the room quieted.

"We are here today to inform the public that the disturbance this morning in Brooklyn was caused by the Green Goblin, who's threat has been hanging over this city for the past nine months. Today, he was finally apprehended. It was discovered that he was a rogue experiment of Oscorp, the result of a super soldier serum gone horribly wrong.

"The Green Goblin was killed in the fighting, and the public may rest easy in the knowledge that he will never again fly through our skies. But our hearts go out to the victims of the attack, four civilians who are injured but are, we are assured, recovering well in the hospital.

"As for the Avengers in general news, we welcome back Mr. Tony Stark into our ranks, and would like to officially announce that the vigilante Spider-Man is being absorbed into our team as well, though doubtless many of you have already seen him on our team these past few months." The Captain abruptly stopped. He looked up from his notes, out into the sea of reporters, who waited, expectantly.

"We…uh, we don't have much else to report, to be honest with you. But I do, if we _are_ being honest. You know this is, this is more Tony's thing, getting up in front of the press and talking, frankly, I avoid it when I can. And _this_, throwing away the notes, that uh, that's definitely more Tony's thing."

Agent Coulson leaned down to Peter's ear and whispered,

"What is he doing?"

"I have no idea," Peter whispered back. Peter had _never_ seen Pops go off the notes before, and to be sure, more cameras were flashing, and the press looked like they'd woken up some. Pops took a deep breath.

"Of course, none of you would know that, because, you know plenty about Captain America—and he _does_ stand up and make speeches all the time—but you don't know much about Steve Rogers and, frankly, that's always suited me just fine. I like my privacy. But uh, I guess there's a big difference between privacy and honesty, between being close-lipped and hiding something.

"I've always done what I thought was best for the team, for this nation, for the world. And for a long time that's meant hiding a big part of myself because I wasn't sure the world was ready to know, if America could handle it. But I've realized over the past few months and especially through the events of today that America will just…just have to be because I won't let my fear tear my family apart. And yes, I did say family."

Cameras were going crazy, and Peter looked to his Dad, who looked utterly stunned. Obviously, he hadn't been told of Pops' plan ahead of time, either. Coulson also looked surprised—well, as surprised as Coulson ever looked—but he also didn't look like he was about to stop Pops, either. Pops turned just ever so slightly, taking Dad's hand in his and bringing him a little more forward.

"Truth of it is, folks, Tony Stark and I have been together for twenty years, and married for fifteen. We've got a wonderful son, Peter—he's not feeling too well today, but he's here, Pete why don't you wave and say hi?" Peter felt a little put on the spot but he managed a small smile and held his hand up in a tiny wave. A barrage of cameras turned in his direction, and for a second he thought he'd gone blind, there were so many flashes.

"I love my family, and I'm not going to let anything stand in the way of that. Not even the whole of America. Not even the whole of the world. And uh, that, well, that really is all we have for you today." The instant Pops finished the press were all screaming over one another, clamoring for questions. Pops didn't answer them. Dad smiled at Pops. Pops smiled back. They kissed each other, a chaste, quick kiss that for sure would end up on youtube in two minutes flat and grace the headlines tonight, before they walked off stage, hand in hand, and came for Peter. Pops took his wheelchair. Coulson looked at Pops. Pops just shrugged and smiled, and wheeled Peter down the hall, back towards his room, and as soon as they were away from the press, Dad burst out.

"Gelato!" he said. "No, better, ice cream cake. Who wants ice cream cake, I'm _craving_ ice cream cake—"

"Tony, I don't think Peter's even had a _proper_ meal today—"

"Ok, fine, I'll special order some crickets—"

"_Dad!"_

"—and _then_ ice cream cake."

"Make it hamburgers," Pops said, rolling his eyes.

"Burger King!" Peter added.

"Oh, and the ice cream cake from Friendly's," Pops finished.

"No, Coldstone!"

"What?" Pops asked. "Coldstone? _Coldstone_? Friendly's is an _American classic_. It's as _old as me_. I went to Friendly's as a kid!"

"Older does not mean better."

"How are you my son? First no coca cola, then no _Friendly's_?"

"I don't know what you two are arguing about, we're getting Ben and Jerry's," Dad said.

Pops and Peter groaned, and the whole little family continued to argue about ice cream cake the whole way back to Peter's room.

Peter reveled in the feeling of air rushing past as he dove around buildings and startled passerby. New York City in the middle of the night was his favorite place to fly. The air was muggy and still smelt of hot dogs and cigarette smoke from the formerly bright summer day.

"Oi, stop being an acrobat, we've got somewhere to be, Peter," Dad said into the comm. system.

"Sure thing, Dad," Peter said. He swooped around and attached a web to the torso of the Iron Man suit, hitching a ride.

He was flying. Really, and truly flying, really and truly part of a team. He looked up at Iron Man, and Captain America who was also hitching a ride. He looked up at his dads, looked up at his family, and finally, _finally_ Peter knew who he was.

He was Peter Stark Rogers. He was the amazing Spider-Man. He _was_ a superhero.

**Fin**.

A/N: I'm putting this here so you don't miss it: there are two Easter egg scenes that, if you search around on my blog, .com you will find. These are the two 'after the credits' scenes that Marvel traditionally has (well, I guess it's usually one, but it was two in _Avengers_). The first can be found when last I asked my followers a question.

It's done! It's done! I can't believe it's done! You, brave soul, have finally reached the end of _A Lesson in Domesticity_. If you're also reading _What Peter Doesn't Know (_Can _Hurt Him)_, there will be one final chapter left of that, but of course, the plot has been given away! If you've stuck through this, you've just read a 154 page word document or around 68,000 words—more, if you're reading the companion story. This is an utter monstrosity, but it's been a joy to write and, I hope for you all, a joy to read as well.

I wouldn't have gotten through this without everyone on Tumblr, so I'd like to thank all my lovely followers here, and I'd really like to thank anyone who has ever sent me an ask with a lovely little note or review! You guys kept me going! And any reviews or notes on this story as a whole would, of course, at this point be doubly appreciated!

Also thanks to everybody on fanfiction . net and archiveofourown who have read and reviewed this story—you guys rock!

I hope you've all enjoyed _A Lesson in Domesticity_. Now, I advise that you go find those Easter eggs!


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